


Renegades

by Cyrelia_J



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU, Adventure, Alien Biology, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassination Attempt(s), Background Relationships, Cliffhangers, Dukat gets laid, Dukat's Children, F/M, Frontier Medicine, Intrigue, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Multi, Mystery, Older Characters, Older Julian, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Rough Sex/Foreplay, Semi Steampunk, Slash, Torture, Violence, Voyeurism, Western, kinda sorta threesome, plots a plenty, sexy times with others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 178,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrelia_J/pseuds/Cyrelia_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU still within the ST Universe. Garak had never heard of the outlaw planet the Federation had dubbed "Westworld" until he found himself assigned there much to his chagrin. Amidst culture shock and information gathering Garak also finds himself hopelessly entangled with intrigue and chaos... as well as one sexy frontier doctor. </p><p>But Garak's wild adventures don't stop there and if he's not careful he may find an early death in the unforgiving desert before his mission is completed. If anyone is up for the challenge however, Garak is. Even if he doesn't know it yet. Garak/Bashir along with others as well as some non G/B action.</p><p>(Just a note, the real hardcore G/B and sex isn't til chapter 30...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quiet Man

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. a whole bunch of things at once but really I thought it would be fun to write a western that's still Star Trek at the heart and not entirely an AU. This doesn't start out as mature but likely will go there later. I also thought it would be fun to get to write an older Julian in a different setting as well. Just picturing Sid in those glasses just kills me too... Big ensemble but not a huge arcing monster, just a series of things planned for now as I think of them and anyone is more than welcome to play in this world. No real warnings yet. C&C is always welcome.

The dust is everywhere. It blows hot across the plains with every whip of fierce wind and Garak can feel it seeming to seep into every billow of the light shirt that he purchased on a whim. _Shoddy work._ He shakes at the fabric fastidiously as the sun continues to beat down and he walks past a human female wearing a bonnet to shield her face from the blazing heat. When the wind stops so does Garak, in the center of the worn dirt road, letting his head fall back to simply _bask_ in the oppressive heat. He breathes in, not caring that it’s dry like the desert and not humid, not that warm wet caress of the heavy jungle air. It is warm, and unlike Bajor, unlike Terok Nor it carries no memories for him. He has had enough of memories, after all. 

There is nothing but the sensation of dust and heat and while Garak cannot be sure of how long he stands there he does not detect an unusual amount of time going by. Nothing unseemly for certain. He sighs as he picks up the single suitcase- a bargain for his old gear. The latinum he acquired for such a simple switch of luggage should last by his estimation a good several months while he settles in as long as he’s not overindulgent. Garak wears a proper smile as another female walks by, another human by the look of her who gives him a curious look but continues on with little interest. _Ah, yes, the Cardassian settlement is several days’ journey from here and you don’t exactly fit the part of a trader._ Or perhaps he does, he considers as his clothes seem to match the simple garments of those few wandering either side of the main road. _Yes, you fit the part perfectly, but they’ve never seen you before have they?_

A worthy challenge for the proprietor of a new business. Garak takes a moment to study the oval display once more as if he can hardly believe it himself. Elim Garak. Occupation Tailor. Assignment Westworld. Westworld. He scoffed at that when he first heard it and he does the same as he puts the small PADD back in the sack slung over his shoulder. West of what, was his first question. His research led him to a rather tongue in cheek Federation reference to some old cultural time period some pre holonovel something or other called a “moovee”. West of civilization is what Garak has determined the planet to be with some of the strangest most advanced primitive sciences he’s ever laid eyes on. Metal, the briefing had indicated was abundant and they’d yet to figure how so many mining the land had never mined it dry. There were even whispers, half corroborated fables of streams of latinum trickling out of the mountains at night only to disappear like some mythical shades in an instant. Scientists, the wry humor of the report noted tended not to fare well outside the city limits and even then...

Garak feels the oddly heavy phaser they call a gun holstered beneath the carefully tucked shirt at his back. He’d been assured the device held the same accuracy as a standard phaser but he knows better than to believe a word from Dukat. Dukat of course is the reason that he’s here at all and he carefully tucks that thought away not giving it sunlight to birth nasty vengeful tendrils; not yet. After all, he has work to do. Garak walks slowly, eyes scanning the various signs hanging the primitively constructed buildings. Wood, he thinks or some sort of plant material but he isn’t certain. Metal ornaments everything, signs, railings, windows. He can’t help but note the entire town might at any moment go up in a grand conflagration. He files that tidbit away noting the spacing of the buildings make poor fire breaks. He walks slowly, certain his gait isn’t quite proper with the stiff leather shoes. He gave an enterprising young Ferengi three slips of latinum before boarding the steam carriage here to shine them and spent the trip with strangely shiny shoes and all the data he required to fill in the gaps.

 _Yes, food will feed the body Elim, but to feed the mind, to fill the empty spaces with information should be a far better investment._ He has a name, of course. Quark. That was more than he was given on the PADD and he was assured by the young man, Nog, that his uncle was the man he needed to see if he was going to be staying there long term. Garak reads off the signs for the sheriff, the general store, and sees a tacky display of a gambler’s den right beside a large non denominational temple. _Now if I were a Ferengi in a small down of exiles and marauders..._ His feet take him straightaway to the brightly polished sign reading “Quark’s” the closer he approaches. Garak sees easily the shimmering outline of a Ferengi profile beside; the first artificial light outside the oddly flickering gas lamps that he’s witnessed since his arrival. He’s not disappointed when he steps inside and sees the large dabo tables- a familiarity in a sea of the strange. 

Wood. More wood greets him but so do more artificial lights, scantily dressed dabo girls and other tables and wheels that he’s never before had a chance to envision. He sees men sitting back with cards, large brim hats hiding their faces, a veritable consortium of facial hair, woven fabrics and even an Andorrian with two antennae comically poking through the band of the hat on his head. _Natives._ Garak deduces quickly, easily separating the travelers, those recently arrived from even those aliens born to this strange hostile world. Their dress apes perfectly but he can see the subtle mismatches. A Trill wears some amalgamation of styles and colors, a feather boa around her neck bright as to be blinding but then, he supposes that could simply be the Trill individuality, itself front and center. Garak drinks it all in from the variant hemlines, the endless ruffles of red and black, the stiff starched shirts, the rolled up sleeves some seeming light as a breeze. Garak watches it all as he slowly makes his way to the bar knowing that for all his newly minted knowledge of intergalactic fashion he’ll need to relearn another lifetime in a matter of weeks. He finds even that small challenge, that little puzzle to be a pleasant one. 

The boards creak beneath his feet, the soles of the shoes loud and announcing but drowned easily by the crowds and the instruments fillings the massive space. Garak meanders through it all easily, hand light on his luggage but aware, engaged nonetheless. He pauses, staring down pleasantly a young pickpocket catching the slender wrist.

“I do beg your pardon, I’m afraid I’m still acclimating to your planet’s charming customs but...” he trails off noting that the young man is Cardassian and shows caution but not fear. He definitely has potential. 

“I didn’t filch your wallet, mister,” he declares, the use of the vernacular confirming Garak’s assessment that he’s native born. Garak doesn’t answer him deciding a little fear now and then never hurts to sharpen a young man’s character.

“Not Mister... Just Garak,” he answers letting his smile lean just a touch toward the predatory. He sees that flicker of nervousness and feels the flex of wrist testing his strength. Yes, that’s much better. “No, I’m well aware that my belongings still rest safe upon my person although I cannot help but notice your interest. You have a sharp eye for a well made bag. I’m told it’s Rigelian ox leather though,” he drops his voice leaning in dramatically. “I do have my suspicions it may be replicated.”

“What do you want?” the young Cardassian half growls at him. “I may be a thief... and I’m not saying I am but thieves, we take, we don’t give away nothing, old man.” _Old man?_ Garak is nearly frozen, that insipid grin still plastered to his face and he huffs internally at the audacity of this youngster who’s clearly gone native. _Ah, take the child away from his home, from order, from civilization and here you have chaos. He might as well be an Iotian for all the manners he displays._ Garak sighs but still doesn’t release his grip.

“My, what a precious child this delightful civilization has birthed now if you would be so kind as to tell me where I might find Quark perhaps I can see my way to make _his_ acquaintance rather than the local constable.” Garak isn’t certain that’s the right word, “sheriff” echoes in his head as well as those blue eyes get big for a moment before-

“You dishonorable Centaurian slug!” The cry draws his attention, the Klingon stands two tables over sloshing what is no doubt a large metal pitcher of blood wine over the wooden surface. “Do you think my eyesight is so weak that I did not see your sneaky hand pull that ace from beneath the table?!” 

“Are you questioning my honor?!” He sees another Klingon seated across stand as well. They don’t wear the traditional Westworld attire but he finds it difficult to conceive of any Klingon assimilating to local custom no matter how many generations they may be removed. They could be offworld but he catches sight of the hilt of a d’k tahg that appears different than those he’s traditionally seen. _A souvenir? Do Klingons even have use for souvenirs that aren’t bleeding?_ Garak watches the tension grow, sees a man come rushing out from the direction of the bar and he smiles. _Ah, and there’s your good fortune today, Elim, right in your-_

“Gul’s balls!” The epithet escapes him as sharp teeth sink into his hand, the boy running back through the crowds as Garak instinctively cradles his wounded hand. 

He sees a man at the bar watching him, chuckle into a pint of whatever beverage he’s drinking and his dignity thanks the State that that solitary man seems to be the only one not intent on seeing this blood feud in the making. Garak hisses, holding the bleeding wound as one more Klingon rises to insult the proprietor’s weak wine. The young thief has already disappeared and Garak can’t help but feel that perhaps he _is_ getting old for being so completely careless and amateur. It hurts. Oh the wound to be sure, but the sting to his pride is far worse in his opinion than whatever cheating card nonsense the group of Klingons has determined to fight over.

“If you think that I will sit here while he insults my honor!”

“You will let such an insult stand, Ferengi?!”

“Gentlemen, _please!_ ”

“The time for pleas is far past! Step aside!”

“Rom!”

“Someone call a doctor!”

Garak barely feels the pain in his hand as he watches the practiced skill with which the tables around them seem to move and it’s then he takes note of how easily the carefully constructed colosseum comes to life amidst the hand wringing and high pitched begging until the  path is clear, and the Ferengi in the long coat draws himself up, steps back and starts taking bets of all things. He hears the odds favoring Kang 3:1. Someone else bets on Kor. And he notices while the crowd gathers around him and he slowly edges back towards the entrance that the three are far older than he thought at a quick glance. A routine then. Garak shakes his head and as he sees the melee begin with the Ferengi he’s positive is Quark amongst the rest of the solicitous waiters standing out boisterously he decides that his post will need to perhaps wait in favor of medical attention. _Ah, off to a fine start already, aren’t you, Elim? Perhaps this won’t be the dull slip into nothingness as you feared after all._ It’s difficult to maneuver the heavy suitcase but he manages, quite proud that the sharp eyes little huckster doesn’t seem to notice him bleeding on the floor. Doubtless that would be a neat excuse to squeeze a few strips of latinum out of him.

Garak shoulders easily through the swinging door of the saloon taking note of the large gears controlling the metal gate from a pocket door to the left. He doesn’t see a keypad and resolves to investigate later. Gears. Mechanics, modified machines seem to be the calling card of this strange new world and he wonders if perhaps the bargain he’d gotten at the busy station was such a bargain after all. He frowns as he considers this and in that moment of contemplation does not consider the figure rushing towards him after a red headed dabo girl towards the doors he’s standing in front of. Garak sees _her_ of course, a flurry of green and black ruffles hiking up the skirts to better clear the steps. He catches her speaking to someone, a hand releasing possibly as she steps around him with a twirl.

“They haven’t started yet, thank the prophets but you _know_ how they are and Quark’s head is too full of latinum to care that one day they’re gonna...” She trails off and looks at him with a particularly ugly expression that reminds him of far too many memories when he sees the familiar wrinkle of her nose. Ah, of course. A Bajoran of all things.

Garak keeps the smile up curious beyond her presence here to see who it is that’s trailing behind her. The doctor, he assumes as he watches her swishing rear enter the building and he thinks perhaps if the Klingons have not yet eviscerated each other he might have the man take a look at his-

Ceiling. 

At least that’s what Garak sees at first when he realizes it’s his back that’s hit the ground and the slats are in front of his eyes. And then stars. No, just two, two brilliant hazel stars looking down at him from behind thin wire framed glasses. _Have they even eschewed such simple medical procedures as ocular correction?_ Garak has no idea why that’s his first thought as he sits up, following the man sitting back on his knees with a flurry of apologies. _Yes, you are certainly getting old if that’s the first thing that comes to mind you poor poor bastard._ The second thought comes to him as he takes in the short tussle of dark hair, tanned sun kissed skin half hidden beneath a salt and pepper scruff of beard. The man looks at him still stammering about his clumsiness as he begins an overly enthusiastic examination of Garak’s seated form.

“...have no idea how I didn’t see you I’m so terribly terribly...” Breathless, comes to mind from the rush of conversation soon followed by boyishly good looking- in spite of likely being the same age as he. But no that definitely comes from within, from that energy, that restless motion of tall slender body. 

There’s a myriad of other thoughts none of which have anything to do with his assignment, exile, whatever Tain has decided to coin it that flicker through him as he catches the scent of some alien tincture and strong clove. He finds it strangely soothing just as he finds the ceaseless babbling mouth... very full human lips equally exotic and alluring. The man’s eyes are just as tireless as the rest of him darting quickly yet not seeming to miss anything. “...right nothing seems to be... I’m sorry here I am banging on and I haven’t even... er... that is...” It had occurred to Garak as the shuttle touched down and he made planetfall on this odd bastion of outlaws and exiles that there was a strong possibility that he was meant to remain here, doomed to never again see his home world. And as the man- Dr. Julian Bashir he catches the name immediately- starts to examine his hand with gentle, skillful fingers still kneeling in front of him, Garak realizes that it may not be so terrible of a prospect after all.


	2. The Quick and the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another meeting with Dr. Bashir proves quite fascinating. And possibly fatal to Garak's health.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So getting settled in I'm hoping for a weekly update like a serial type thing so this might run crazy long or I might drop off entirely. Hopefully the former :) I'll add warnings/characters as I go so stay tuned, enjoy the ride, and as always C&C is welcome especially if I screw something up. Thanks to everyone for reading and supporting me!

“You’re here to kill Quark, aren’t you?” It’s not until he finishes processing the question that Garak realizes he currently stands with his left forearm trapping Dr. Bashir’s throat to the outside wall of the building. His right has the gun drawn pointed to his chest. Garak blinks, unnerved that he was unable to sense the man’s presence. He quickly drops both arms reholstering the weapon far more expertly than most off worlders. He learned quickly observing from the rented room above this modest watering hole known as “Rom’s” that to draw fast and to aim true is the difference between sure life and death out here. Especially when the sheriff is in whatever nightly regen the locals whisper about. _Well at least you know in application your reflexes are still sharp. Defense response is still more than acceptable._ _But that’s the second time he’s been able to do that. Once, perhaps you were distracted by external stimuli but this time you were more than aware. You were perfectly alert and yet here you didn’t so much as sense his presence until he was already beside you._

Garak takes a step back aware that his silence- that the way he’s certain that he’s staring into those wide surprised eyes- does nothing but lend credence to such a fanciful speculation. _Ah but it can’t be helped._ And so he allows that unwise impulse and lets his eyes draw down slowly from Dr. Bashir’s slightly parted lips to the undone top buttons of the white linen shirt, showing just enough skin that it should be considered immodest. _And as surprised, as shocked as you would have me believe you are, doctor I don’t detect any genuine hint of fear from you. Certainly you don’t know me well enough from the moments we spent together in your office to lose your fear of me. Especially if you truly believe me to be a hired gun._ And in fact, Dr. Bashir hardly seems to have taken much notice of his own circumstances and is instead already craning his head with utter indiscretion to see if he can catch a glimpse of the weapon.

“I knew it,” he breathes, eyes furtively darting to left and right. Garak is terribly proud of himself for not so much as twitching in response to the obscenely obvious gesture.

“My dear doctor,” Garak answers absently straightening the loose fabric of Dr. Bashir’s shirt, smoothing it, making a show of brushing him off for any who might be watching. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” His voice is mild, and he easily recovers a humoring upturn of his mouth. “But I’ll have to beg your pardon on this exciting bit of town gossip for the moment. I’m feeling quite... peckish and was just on my way to supper.” Garak deliberately uses the human word, having researched the accent and committed it to memory. _Federation human ancestry Earth, origins United Kingdom._ His expression doesn’t change even as he catches the double blink from Dr. Bashir, the faint curiosity, that little bit of reactionary tell of a slight lift of his head showing him his aim is true. _Was there any doubt, Elim? Do they really all have you doubting your abilities now? Perhaps this little... vacation will do you some good if it helps you recover your senses. So, doctor, native born but not further out than your father else you’d surely speak with the same colloquialisms as the rest of the native born... unless of course there’s a sizable population of your... ethnicity I believe is the human word but that seems unlikely given the size of the United Kingdom even with their disproportionately large representation in Starfleet. Maritime people, natural born seafarers, explorers, pioneers, but even then... No, stick with your hunch on this one, Elim._

Garak steps around the doctor solicitously going for the door, the whirl of thoughts a rushing burble of bursting swamp bubbles already passed through his mind. He’s neatly compartmentalized it to the background only to let it be covered with far less telling thoughts of wind and weather. The sun has started to set and while he’s easily acclimated to the welcome dry desert heat- even the frequent sand storms have become routine in the last week- he finds the cold nights to be a complete misery when they’ve caught him unawares. _And speaking of being caught unawares..._ He knows Dr. Bashir has moved again as surely as he knows he’s breathing. He still cannot hear him, cannot sense him properly. But he’s found in his “twilight years” as Dukat has so grandly called them that there is no shortage of experience to draw on when he needs it. It’s that experience which tells him to turn left- Dr. Bashir seems to favor the left, perhaps a friend or relative’s handicap nurturing that habit- and Garak finds true to expectation that he stands there now expectantly. Garak’s hand hovers over the brass doorknob. This time he decides to keep his attention focused away from the terribly attractive doctor. He cannot be certain that there wasn’t a verbal entreaty that he’d missed with another sweep of brisk wind and he decides it safe to proceed as if there was.

“I would ask you to join me, doctor, but I’m afraid I’m hardly presentable company. More to the point, whatever _would_ the local gossips say to you and I breaking bread in light of the circumstances?” He’s not entirely certain if he speaks to scare Dr. Bashir away or to in fact play upon that natural curiosity and draw him in deeper. While the doctor could certainly prove to be a useful source of information on the world and its customs if nothing else he’s far too inquisitive for his own good... Or Garak’s for that matter. He finds himself surprised when he hears Dr. Bashir then step next to him with a shake of his head and a somewhat unreadable expression.

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Garak.” Garak notes he’s forgotten after their first meeting that the title isn’t necessary. _Forgot or willfully defaulted, that is._ He notices Dr. Bashir reach into his pocket and take out a small timekeeping piece on a silver chain. He puts it back with a winsome little grin before readjusting his glasses to their proper position. _You don’t need them, do you? Of course there is the possibility that your visual impairment... myopia going by your affectations isn’t that severe but then why wear those spectacles the remainder of the time?_ He recalls in that look of the man full in the face there was no moment of lost focus, no blindness so to speak or even the unconscious perception thereof. He makes a note to test his theory farther at a later time as he catches Dr. Bashir speaking again. 

“Let them talk if they must and believe me there are some who must... But I think you’ll be disappointed by the nature of their speculation...” There is a weighty frown that morphs slowly to his face bringing a heavy burden to the forefront far too deep to ever belong to a younger man. “They’ll wonder... how long before you die... that is if they assume that the nature of our relationship is a romantic one.” He brushes past Garak opening the door briskly before stepping inside to the noisy main room. “I’ve killed everyone I’ve ever loved... who’s ever loved me...” Dr. Bashir laughs suddenly. “Now that’s terribly dramatic, isn’t it? But I _am,_ as you say, feeling quite peckish so if you’d care to join me I’d welcome the company. Of course if you’re a more cautious man than that well... I won’t hold it against you.” He shrugs his shoulders with the air of a man accustomed to frequent disappointment even as he throws out that unspoken challenge. _Chase me if you dare_ is what Garak hears beneath the surface as Dr. Bashir turns away and heads towards an empty table that Garak has yet to see occupied after a week’s worth of dinners. _His table then. And pursue you to it, I shall._

“And refuse such an intriguing offer?” Garak murmurs to himself. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The words were soft, spoken only to himself as he followed Dr. Bashir but he caught it- that slight misstep- not a trip but an aborted pause that is recovered from with such ease he should think that he only imagined it. _But I know better than to doubt my first impression and by Gul somehow you heard that, doctor._ He can feel the excitement flood him at the prospect of the mystery deepening. _Mmm yes, mystery coupled with a delectable sway of a posterior that clearly has been kept in very fine shape._ Garak laments briefly that he’s allowed his focus on Dr. Bashir’s many alluring assets to divert his attention from his customary survey of the establishment’s patrons and quickly scans the room in front of the bar. He sees what’s he’s deemed the usual crowd; A human male and his wife- Garak learned their marital status rather quickly hearing mention of the “Battling O’Briens” his first night. Newly bandaged hand leaving him sorely missing a dermal regenerator nursed only by a unexpectedly fine vintage of kanar and a rousing display of marital discord to go with it. _Dinner and a show,_ he remembers in a vivid flood only tonight there’s a pause in the evening’s conflict as O’Brien the mister looks up at Dr. Bashir with a curious expression.

 _Should I?_ That look seems to say. _No no..._ comes the answering expression back from the doctor. The sign is easily recognized as the two men quickly turn back away from each other and Garak only thinks to look one table over to a group of Ferengi spending what he’s determined is the third night in a row trying to find the best mode of attack to reveal the fabled latinum stream of the North Mountains. Garak stops his walk, pulling out the ladder backed chair immensely pleased that Dr. Bashir allowed him the seat with its back to the wall. It’s a pleasure only tempered by the acute feeling that it was a deliberate calculation, confirmed when the doctor sits and leans in almost conspiratorially. 

“I imagined you’d be more comfortable there,” He whispers with a second one of those dreadfully obvious stage looks left and right. “Lets you watch the room and all... watch for enemies.” Dr. Bashir shoots him that charming terribly pleased with himself smile and the absurdity makes Garak shake his head and smile back. _So that’s to be the game tonight then. I suppose I’ve been “interrogated” by far worse._

Garak merely nods but rather than immediately launch into conversation, he sees Dr. Bashir suddenly pull a small square of pressed plant pulp- paper, his mind supplies- and begin furiously scribbling. He holds up a finger in a gesture to wait as his hand deftly scrawls and Garak allows himself the luxury of finalizing his quick survey chastising himself for his sluggishness earlier. _By the State, Elim, did you really walk fifteen paces without catching everything? Surely it’s been a long time but you know better than to prioritize leering at an attractive body over surveillance._ He decides to remedy that quickly, thankful that his vision in the dark has always been superior even to that of his colleagues. The main room after twelve hundred hours is always dark, heavy draperies curtaining everything off and he suspects it’s in deference to the more light sensitive patrons who frequent later in the day. The aether tubes- as he’s since learned the name of the unique substance therein- running along the upper molding produce pleasant enough light but he’s gathered by deduction there must be an associated expense to explain their sparsity. Garak has always considered a poorly lit eatery to be a particularly ominous sign but fortunately for his sojourn he’s found the food quite to his liking.

And he sees now, the patrons and their assorted dishes; Klingon, Cardassian, Human, and an abundance of bugs that he chalks up to Ferengi influence. The natives don’t seem to possess replicator technology- whether by some esoteric reason or not he’s yet to figure out- and yet the stores that must be required to produce such a wide array of dishes would have to be nearly impossible to acquire. As with everything else he notes it for later to be filled in when his attention affords. And his attention finds nothing of note until his eyes come across a Bajoran woman dressed in red who’s clearly an off worlder. Her auburn hair is short, neat, and her dark eyes focus on him intently. He can tell she’s not a woman who drops her gaze first.  She, like the rest of the Bajorans he’s seen thus far gives him a look of undisguised disdain but as he smiles pleasantly and looks back towards the doctor he can definitely detect an aura of malice far more personal than say the other two seated closer who glance at him, frown, and return to their meal. _Curious...._ What is also curious is the snatch of conversation he catches from that more immediate table speculating how long until the doctor performs a public service and rids the world of another “damn spoonhead”. _Such a charming topic of conversation for dinner..._

But it seems that Dr. Bashir was honest on that point and not merely playing theatrics. _Well Elim, it looks as if your life may very well be in mortal peril should you decide to pursue this liaison to the next level. Very interesting._ Well if hazel eyes peering at him from behind those suspect glasses weren’t promising enough themselves that most certainly makes his mind up for him. Garak watches Dr. Bashir look quickly between whatever notes he’s accumulated and Garak’s face as if trying to decide something. _Pity I’ve arrived at my conclusion first._

“Well now, doctor,” Garak says clearly stealing the fire from whatever Dr. Bashir was working up to, “You should allow me to treat you as an apology for my earlier behavior. After all, you refused to accept my money for the impeccable way you doctored my hand and here I’ve repaid you by assaulting you and pointing a gun at your head.” He isn’t certain what reaction to expect, his short acquaintance with the doctor leading him to deduce that at this point he cannot yet predict his responses with perfect accuracy; he finds that prospect quite delightful. 

“You’re opening a haberdashery here in the last of the border towns before open sky ground and the North Mountains. The best prospects for such a business would surely be any of the main capitals. Thetanos isn’t welcoming of outsiders but that leaves the coastal cities before you cross the Ionian Sea. Even barring that you would have travelled straight here from Babel Tower and _even_ if you travelled by rail which is the most expedient way you would have passed Dead Falls, Chapparal, and Muledo- all of which I’m certain you’ve seen are much more populous and prosperous than here with a wider variety of patrons...” He speaks as if he hadn’t heard a word Garak said determined to complete the monologue he’d worked up in his mind. “My meal is covered of course so you needn’t trouble yourself,” he adds hastily before looking back at the paper again. “And so _why_ would an off worlder open such an establishment here? Of course I considered,” Dr. Bashir rushes on excitedly “that you had friends or at the very least business contacts here but after our initial conversation I ruled that out immediately.” Again he looks proud of himself not having paused for breath until now when Garak notices that same red headed Bajoran woman he’d seen rushing into Quark’s the week prior. 

“The usual, Doctor Bashir?” She asks looking curiously to Garak rather than to Dr. Bashir. 

“Oh right, Yes, of course, please. It _is_ Thursday after all and I can afford to be a bit indulgent but as I was saying you’d want to set up a long time establishment so that you might do it and not-”

“Julian,” her tone is much more familiar, the tone chastising. He looks at Garak and stammers a quick apology. “Right, manners. This is Leeta. I’m sure you’ve seen her at Quark’s but actually-“

“Actually I own the restaurant here.” 

“Well Rom actually,” Dr. Bashir corrects automatically and Garak doesn’t envy him the venomous smile she shoots him. He seems completely oblivious in any case.

“ _I’m_ the owner.” She corrects his correction. Garak sees no reason to argue with that assertion. “And you are?” Garak folds his hands crisply on the table looking at her with a small nod of his head subtly, quickly appreciating the white taffeta hugging her waist and the crimped aerophane hair thin blue strands woven through delicately that beautifully frame her bosom. _No local tailor but she easily wears a dress like that. Whatever the sign says, doctor, rest assured she is most certainly the owner._ And if his brief introduction to the Ferengi currently rushing back and forth behind the bar is any indicator he’s certain her hand in the business is absolute.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance formally, I’m Garak. Not Mister,” He shoots a look to Dr. Bashir who pays him just as much mind as he had Leeta as he flips back through pages of the paper, “Just Garak. As I understand it I’m to play an important sacrifice to the good doctor’s murderous impulses tonight.”

“Tonight?!” _Ah, now that got your attention, didn’t it?_ He notes that Dr. Bashir seems unduly flustered not by his allusion to ill fated lovers but rather the hint of impending intercourse. _A bit prudish for my tastes but that can certainly be overcome easily enough._

“Oh you really mustn’t mint the gossip.” He notes her far more conventional reaction to what most would find the important part of his statement. “I mean there are... there’s more to... not that it’s my place, can I suggest the Sem’hal Stew?” She rushes her voice rushed rising just a bit. “I guarantee you’ll feel like you’re right  in North Torr. I mean assuming you’ve been to North Torr but our cook said that’s where the recipe comes from.” Garak doesn’t show his surprise at her knowledge of his home world and wonders then if her reaction to seeing him earlier hadn’t merely been a reflex. _Yes, lest you forget you’re a member of the race who enslaved her people and brought nothing but misery and death to an entire planet._ He simply nods.

“I would be delighted. I _have_ found myself in the district a few times and it most certainly would be a welcome taste of home. Oh and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble with yamok sauce-“

It’s impossible to miss the way that the Bajoran woman in the corner nearly starts in her seat and he isn’t sure to make of it when Leeta gives a quick nod and leaves the table. _And she, like Dr. Bashir couldn’t possibly have heard that but I suspect possibly a different reason at hand._ Garak wants to watch her. He has a feeling that he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of her but he knows that whatever needs to play out won’t come to fruition with him seeming too aware so he looks back to Dr. Bashir calmly. 

“Now, my dear doctor,” he continues without missing a step in their earlier conversation. “While I admit my choice of locale for my business might be suspect at best, I hardly think my decision to bring my much needed aesthetic to Indigo should be cause for concern.”

“Aha! But that is just the tip of it, Mister Garak!” He doesn’t quite punctuate the statement with a garish point of his finger but Garak can almost picture it nonetheless. Dr. Bashir grins at him not knowing how seductive that expression is as he takes his hand. “See I first had my suspicions when you kept asking after Quark. When in my lab you asked no questions about the more obvious specimens, the skeleton in the corner, the terrariums full of different arachnid species any of that. But you see here..” 

Dr. Bashir points to the scabbed over wound on Garak’s hand and he too suddenly finds that hand, finds that bronze thumb caressing the scar the most fascinating thing in the world as well.

“Doctor, while I admit the prices that Quark charges might give cause for some malcontent I assure you that-”

“Shh shh but see here... _here_ ,” Doctor Bashir interrupts him with an intensity to his eyes that makes them nearly seem to glow. Garak finds himself stuck stupid to those eyes for however long passes as Dr. Bashir opens his mouth to speak once more he cannot imagine what could have been revealed in those fleeting minutes but-

“Aamin Marritza!” the shout comes not from some ten feet away where the Bajoran woman previously sat but closer to his right. Garak’s head jerks up, that yell pulling him from his reverie simply from the unexpectedness and he curses such an amateur response even as he recovers. But that recovery comes just as the barrel of a long gun, not entirely unlike the one holstered behind his back, aims right for his chest; his heart more than likely. No, not quite like the one at your back. That one is safely holstered in a case that would absorb the impact of at least one fire of the aether where the one pointed at you has no such precaution. And these guns only have- as he’s found purely by happy accident- a kill setting to boot. For all the Bajoran rhetoric about “spoonheads” lacking hearts you all seem eager enough to point your weapons there. Garak sees snarling triumph on the woman’s face as she stares him down. Marritza. The name garners little recognition but he imagines it must be Cardassian. Should he live through this he’ll make it a point to educate himself on the despicable scoundrel who ought to be standing here in his place.

“I believe there’s been a-"

“Quiet snake.” She takes another step closer, the room deathly silent and he sees Dr. Bashir’s face losing all color and he cannot help but find a rather dark comedy in the sense of _deja vu_ that must be flitting through the poor man’s mind. Garak would laugh himself if the barrel wasn’t growing steadily larger in his line of vision reminding him that even by accident it could too easily go off. He considers whether or not he has time to reach for his holstered weapon- “That gun you’ve got. I want to see it on the table.” And now that that question has been neatly answered he obeys slowly. “I know it’s you, Marritza. There’s no trying to hide any longer, you filthy murderer. And I’ve got more bad news for you. The bounty pays the same whether you’re alive or dead. I think you can see which one I prefer. Now, do you have any last words before I send you to hell?”

“Only two,” Garak offers calmly as he places the gun on the table and stands with his hands up. “Over. Acting.” He wonders how long he’ll be able to enjoy the look of perplexed rage that settles on her face at his witty retort. _If I was a betting man, I’d wager not long at all._ His predictions have, after all, always have been right about the most unfortunate of events.


	3. The Petrified Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak avoids death by a quick shot but there are some other slings not so easily dodged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a bit longer than I plan on keeping most chapters but it couldn't be helped. I also want to emphasize that while this absolutely is at the heart a Garak/Bashir story and I have no intention of diverting that course I didn't want them to exist in a romantic vacuum either. So you will see flirting, past relationships, admiration of others, even possibly hugging and or kissing (**amendment 10/4/15: THERE WILL BE OTHER NON G/B SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS INVOLVING BOTH GARAk, BASHIR, OR BOTH) I definitely want to make sure that's out in the open before going any further since not all of them will have tags in order to keep spoilers for later chapters.
> 
> Expanding on that I also think that Garak was done a great injustice by having such little interaction with other characters on the show and with this story again while the main romantic relationship is Garak/Bashir I want to have Garak knowing, interacting, and playing with others in various roles. So I guess you could say at the heart it's a Garak centric story overall. You'll also see other minor characters getting more regular time too because I like a lot of them.
> 
> That being said any and all C&C is welcome. You may catch a few references to other shows/books but aside from a few fun nods by names this isn't a crossover and won't be featuring characters from any place that's not ST or ST conceived OC. So yeah, long note is long on with the story!

_Bang._ That’s what Garak hears first. It’s a noise so sudden, loud, that it crashes through his eardrums to the very core of his cerebellum and he’s astounded to find that nothing in the room has exploded. A sound weapon? Surely he thinks that’s what causes his entire body to lock up tightly and nearly fall over before he regains a proper sense of balance. He catches the high pitched screams of the Ferengi and he feels a brief stab of pity before he seeks out the source of the strange noise weapon, his arms flopping abruptly, bonelessly to his sides. That triggers an immediate recall of the Bajoran woman and her weapon except that where he sees her standing, eyes blinking stunned he sees no weapon. _Was she the intended target then? Is she still hearing it? Well once was certainly enough for me and if I never hear another sound like that in my life it will be too soon._ But no she doesn’t appear to be hearing anything instead staring down at her hand which Garak realizes just now is bleeding profusely. He sees her looking back at him with a look of impotent fury he usually only sees on the faces of his enemies- or at least those who perceive him as an enemy. _Really, these are no two professions more loathed than the Order Interrogators and the tax collectors. But at least_ _we_ _perform a vital service to the state._ Garak is certain of course that the woman clenching her jaw tightly clutching the wound is not a tax evader and that aside she called him by a different name.

  _Who is Aamin Marritza?_ That is what catches his curiosity more insistently than anything else as he’s forced to push his observational skills to their limit. He feels a disapproving purse of his own lips knowing he’s going to have to risk the looks for a chance to grab all at once hoping at least if Dr. Bashir takes note he won’t be tempted to dissect his head. Garak draws a deep breath knowing this is likely going to give him a blinding headache later but needing to see far too many things at once. It’s quick. Far faster than even the unconscious motions from his childhood and he sees it split his left eye tracking further left and his right moving further right until he’s certain his visage would likely pose a fear to most children of any species and give the Bajorans yet one more tall tale to pass around about their Cardassian oppressors. He sees out of that right eyes however that the Bajorans in question are looking uncomfortably not at him but in the direction of the bar as they set their money down and make a quick exit along with the shaken Ferengi. Nothing of note, his left watching simultaneously a far more intriguing display as Leeta comes into view and he recognizes the silver flash and the faint trail of smoke from the muzzle of the gun immediately.

Garak thanks the tired old man he’s become for spending so many hours whiling away time by the window of his rented room watching out at night. He studied carefully the outlaws facing each other down in the street from the safety of the blackened space over the dark alleyway. He knows that familiar flash of a gun muzzle- silver, bronze, it doesn’t particularly matter. They all fire the same high velocity metallic pellets that easily tear through both flesh and bone. _Primitive, destructive, but highly effective_. That’s what he sees Leeta holding in her hand precisely, calmly, staring down the Bajoran woman much to Garak’s surprise. _Interesting. I though the Prophets forbid them firing on their own._ But here, he’s heard spoken that the gods desert those who eschew their own kind for the lure of riches and sin. That on Westworld the gods have turned away from such evil men as who would reside here at the abandonment of all that is pure and good. This, from a street preacher he encountered at the base of Babel Tower. _Which of course begs the question why he felt it necessary to ask two slips of latinum for his blessing._ Garak left fully assured he was completely damned but as far as he was concerned the fact that he made it off the darkened hell ride known as the Drill of Heaven- or however the universal translator had phrased it- in one piece was proof enough that he was if anything newly baptized.

That aside, Leeta certainly seems to know what she’s doing with the weapon and the Bajoran woman turns the full force of that enmity on her as Dr. Bashir rises from the table so quickly that Garak thinks he’s going to flee the scene in a babbling panic. But instead he sees the doctor and O’Brien exchange a glance before his right eye catches O’Brien dash to retrieve the gun from where it’s fallen tossing it to the Ferengi behind the bar. He moves quickly for the age and shape- or lack of shape, Garak amends- that he appears to be in but that’s nothing compared to Dr. Bashir’s easy vault over the wooden construct of the bar, one hand resting as an afterthought to the surface, his knees, his feet clearing even the careful display of bottles and glasses. Garak definitely takes note of that for no matter how many recreational holoprograms a civilian might engage in, the average human certainly does _not_ move like that. Dr. Bashir isn’t still for a moment as he follows that with a fast exchange to the Ferengi, Rom, Garak remembers, Dr. Bashir ducking down retrieving a small case and hesitating before running back around the front like normal. _Oh we’re far too late for normalcy here, doctor._

“Let me see it, Major.” Dr. Bashir says softly holding out his hand placing himself between Leeta and her without thinking, blocking the sharp eyed line of sight. _You fool_ , Garak wants to shout and he can already sense before he sees her other hand slowly, carefully reaching down, the dark leather wrapped hilt of a knife coming into his view. Garak forces his eyes back to focus, knees nearly buckling as the binocular vision resettles and locks into place but he quickly brings it to bear about to launch himself at her when he hears Leeta’s command “Don’t.” It stops him. He doesn’t quite know why but Dr. Bashir presses on with an almost infuriating obliviousness examining the woman’s hand having set the bag down on the empty table next to him. Garak sees that gun trained not on doctor and patient but to an odd metallic point on the wall. _No, that “don’t” wasn’t intended for you but-_ But the woman stops her slow subterfuge, a sharp hiss as Dr. Bashir nears the wound proper. 

“She won’t miss, Major,” Dr. Bashir informs her calmly just as she jerks her hand back and demands he stop calling her that. _Clearly Dr. Bashir seems to have little regard for anyone’s titular preference._

“I won’t, Kira. You know that,” Leeta concurs and Garak triangulates the path, the likely pattern should the metal piece from the gun- the bullet- ricochet and he can only assume that it truly will find its mark. 

So then Dr. Bashir knew exactly what he was doing. _Or he didn’t and that was merely a happy accident but even if he is truly as oblivious as he seems,_ _she_ _most certainly is not._ Leeta, he realizes is far more than she appears and warrants further observation as well. _Yes, now that I see you standing there holding that pistol so expertly, my feisty entrepreneur, I feel that I would be remiss in not getting to know you better. Both you and the doctor are quite the mysterious duo but you... You looked at me no differently than the rest those few seconds where you first saw me but not the next. Of course that’s easily explained by anyone with a professional attitude but you mentioned North Torr. Your cook allegedly comes from North Torr but the odds of such a thing are dreadfully low. Those from that sector are almost exclusively single minded tightly knit military grunts lacking anywhere near the imagination to strike out to such a world as this. And even then those who run the stalls are typically from the eastern sector._ But then how would she even know about it at all? _You practically ran when I asked for the yamok sauce. Was the suggestion then a test of some sort? A signal? But how could it possibly be a signal with you there so vigorously my champion?_

No, there are too many contradicting variables for him to piece together just yet so instead he settles back to observing Dr. Bashir reaching into the bag and taking out a glass bottle of clear liquid. 

“I should’ve known I couldn’t trust you,” the woman- Kira practically curses as she speaks the name.

“Lower the gun please, Leeta,” Dr. Bashir requests softly, his voice taking on a quieter but firmer cadence to it. He raises a finger forestalling any answer to the accusation. Leeta obeys slowly releasing the hammer. 

“You’ve lost these two fingers,” Dr. Bashir informs Kira in that same tone as he holds his hand out once more only now he moves his head slowly, carefully catching her look when she does as he asks. “Sit.” He doesn’t let his eyes drop from hers and she carefully takes a seat. Garak is fascinated how he holds her eyes with a near hypnotic sway but more so that she listens. _But you did as well, didn’t you? That same trick, that same technique._ _Ah, and here you thought you were special, Elim._ But that small pinprick of disappointment pales in comparison to his fascination with the calm that he can see settling over Kira as Dr. Bashir guides her hand to the wooden table top to rest her wrist there gently.

Garak sees her breathing start to speed up as the adrenaline is likely fading, and he too can see that the flesh has been ripped cleanly from the first finger down to knuckle, the second at least half gone, the bleeding starting to take on an alarming level. Garak doesn’t smile. The blood no longer makes him smile and it is for that reason Tain expressed concern that he’s likely lost his touch. _Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, you know. You never did understand that it wasn’t about the blood. The blood was the balm of failure, the price extracted for forcing my hand but it was never the end game._

“This is going to hurt.” He hears Dr. Bashir speak those words as he removes the top from the bottle. Garak sees O’Brien hand her a napkin rolled carefully and he notices it’s only the seven of them left in the room the other tables an assortment of empty plates and some vanished plates entirely but no lack of coin. He cannot imagine anyone making off with a free dinner who dare show his face again.

Kira looks like she wants to answer Dr. Bashir sharply but she takes the napkin and puts it between her mouth ready to bite down. She nods her head and he lets it pour, the strong smell of alcohol hitting Garak fast. _Ah, frontier medicine at its finest._ And he waits, watches, expecting to hear a scream as the first splash hits, seeing her body stiffen, jerk up, O’Brien’s hands on her shoulders to hold her down. But Garak doesn’t see the coil of leg muscles to rise, only the heave of her chest as her respirations increase tenfold, a sharp near silent bit back cry that he can only hear for the fast sharp second it takes to bring it back under control. _It’s a wonder she hasn’t screamed. Is she in shock? By Gul with that injury... as much as I can only imagine it burns..._ And then he hears in that moment a beautiful cacophony of screams, of prayers, of cries to the Prophets that assail his memories as if he were once again standing in that filthy garrison on Bajor and he... _Stop it._ Garak obeys that command. _Not all Bajorans scream_. _You know that better than anyone._ In spite of himself he recalls with perfect clarity the curses, the silent defiances... the blood. Once again he has to keep an inappropriate smile from insinuating itself onto his face. _Now see, Elim, it’s those sorts of reactions that make people dislike you._ But it’s always infuriated Tain- that smile, that expression that would only grow in scope the more that it hurt, the more that _he_ hurt. Garak rather enjoys smiling. 

 _Not now._ He doesn’t allow it. The implant makes it easier to bring that grin to bear as Dr. Bashir finishes the rinse, applying some clear gel from a metal tube which much to his amazement begins staunching the bleeding in a near instant. _Who is Aamin Marritza?_ It comes to him again soon followed by the thought that he absolutely must know, _must_ remember because now there is some part of his mind that tells him the name has some important meaning that he shouldn’t be forgetting so easily. _You’re slipping..._ haunts him again. 

“I don’t see the gauze,” Dr. Bashir’s voice interrupts him as he rummages through the bag, Kira taking the cloth from her mouth, somehow managing to look dignified while wiping her brow with the self same spit covered rag. Garak notes that Rom looks particularly defensive as he declares that Quark hasn’t been particularly generous with the mop rags for the bar.

“He will be now,” Leeta declares ominously as her eyes fall upon the great bloody mess pooling over and around the table. Garak allows the smile at last, a freeing feeling watching Rom scurry to the back to see what he can come up with in spite of Dr. Bashir’s protests. The doctor looks up somewhat sheepishly to the lot of them as he begins unbuttoning his shirt- Garak assumes to throw together a makeshift bandage. _Mmm frontier medicine, indeed._ Garak debates for all of a fleeting moment averting his gaze but he’d always been taught it was far better to not stand out and he notices that no one else looks away as Dr. Bashir shrugs the gauzy linen from his slender shoulders and reveals quite to his appreciative astonishment that the golden tan extends far past that daring V of the perpetually unbuttoned shirt. Extends and blankets a tightly muscled torso, lean, strong, sinewy muscle wrapped in a smooth silken package. _Your clothing metaphors are definitely improving, Elim._

 _But my that_ _is_ _quite a pleasant revelation._ He continues to watch amused as Dr. Bashir waves away a whistle from Leeta whilst skillfully ripping scraps along the weave as careful as one can be when using hands and teeth.

“It may have been some time since I’ve seen a man shirtless Julian,” Mrs. O’Brien declares as the Mister blanches, “But I still remember what one looks like. My memory isn’t that bad yet.”

“Come now, Mrs. O’Brien, you couldn’t possibly be a day over thirty five.” Garak offers the flattery knowing best to always guess a woman’s age a few years lower than he assumes but even he’s taken aback when she practically glows and declares quite proudly that she’s just turned fifty. There’s a happy crinkle around her eyes far more telling that Garak hadn’t noticed before but then again, he muses, he’s never seen the woman smile before. It seems he’ll have to amend his earlier assessment. 

“He doesn’t look like a ‘murderin’ Cardie bastard, Miles,” Mrs. O’Brien muses and Garak sees that familiar tense of shoulders he’s learned too well from one of their many arguments.

“Don’t let the silver tongue fool you, Keiko, they all love to hear themselves talk. Even when they’re setting fire to your house and killing anything that moves.” _Keiko..._ He latches onto that part of the conversation finding the rest of her xenophobic blather far too repetitive to be of interest. _A different sound than the nomenclature of those you’ve met so far of human origin. A different country? Continent? Tribe? Whatever humans use. Fascinating. They really do mingle their castes so feely._

“Yes, you’re right. Such a dangerous criminal,” she answers back and that sweet voice is another precursor to chaos that Garak has learned to detect which amazingly Kira seeming to know Mrs. O’Brien far better than he doesn’t. Or if she does it doesn’t concerned her but it definitely concerns Mr. O’Brien as she declares that perhaps they should call the sheriff to deal with the “dangerous Cardassian” as she walks briskly towards the door ignoring his protests. Garak follows their path out with his eyes, his ears catches the escalating argument even as they grow well out of that range.

“...and by then you’ll need to decide if you’re going to remain here or go off world where they can likely repair you to full functionality,” Garak comes back to Dr. Bashir informing Kira as he finishes with the makeshift bandage to the wound. “You know if you stay here the only choice you have is going to Rush Valley for one of the mithril prosthetics and the treatment I need to use varies greatly after we dispense with the pain mitigation so-” 

“I’m not leaving.” Kira looks at Garak seeming to have little care for the lost fingers. “Not while _he’s_ still here.”

“While I’m quite flattered that a beautiful woman such as yourself is so taken with me,” he continues with grace despite her icy glare, “This seems to be a case of mistaken identity.”

“Well of course it is,” Dr. Bashir readily agrees as he puts the bottle back along with the mystery tube. “He introduced himself to me last week as a Mister Garak-”

“Not “Mister,” Just Garak,” he corrects the same time as Leeta does and the two of them share a somewhat startled look, she looking far more astonished than he. 

Garak watches her even more closely aware that such intensity directed from him to a Bajoran female is hardly the wisest choice if he wants to maintain any semblance of a civil relationship or avoid misunderstanding but he finds that she doesn’t shrink away or look uncomfortable but instead meets that look unafraid, if a bit stunned. She walks towards him and now it’s he that’s almost tempted to step back. _Don’t be foolish, she clearly means you no harm, far from it, she’s looking at you like she’s looking at the dead rising._

“That’s what he told you.” Kira’s statement is part question, part reprimand, part a million other unflattering things that again, he’s heard far too many times to be new and exciting. But as for what she says next... “You told me that he always sat with his back to the wall. You told me he was from North Torr. _You_ told _me_ , Leeta, that Marritza was the only Cardassian you’ve ever known who likes yamok sauce with his Sem’hal stew, and you and I both know the damn dirty snakes can change their skin to look like whoever they want!” And as Kira stands with fury Garak feels the bottom drop out as everything pulls together into a big ball of something that makes perfect sense but no sense at all.

“Major _please_ , you’ve lost a lot of blood and there’s-“

“It’s not him!” _You’re lying._ It’s the first thing that comes to mind in spite of the insanity of it all. And that lie is spoken with such conviction of the truth in which she believes to hide Garak nearly believes it himself. He doesn’t of course. In the end he knows better than to be pulled into such fantasy worlds and his mind is a fast process of how, what, when, but he sees this entire time that all these small subtle cues have been building to what these two women now argue while both believing the exact same “truth.”

“Why are you protecting him?!” He watches Kira sway again, Dr. Bashir catching her this time. Leeta doesn’t answer, her eyes focused frantically on Kira as if to draw any attention away from him. As if her refusal to look at him is proof enough of her words.

“Major... _Kira,_ you need to rest and you more than likely need blood but I won’t know until-”

“Collaborator!” Kira accuses the words flung fiery, fanatically. She reaches out as if to grab, to rip the mask off the face of some imagined demon just as Dr. Bashir with a feat of strength pulls her back hard.

“Right, making a medical override on this one.” She looks ready to lunge, to fight him, but Garak sees her head wobble again, eyes unfocused as she tries to clear it. “And in any case I’m sure Odo will be here any moment full of questions, accusations, and all sorts of things I’d rather deal with _after_ I get you treated, wouldn’t you say?” Dr. Bashir waits for a growl of agreement, her look plainly showing this won’t be over between the two women any time soon. That look is returned, not with anger but with conviction and a calm sense of self that he cannot but find admirable.

“I wasn’t a collaborator, Nerys,” Leeta answers with a raw sobriety drawing herself up. “I was just a woman who loved a man.” _And that, my dear, I completely believe._ He believes that just as Kira processes, her eyes almost comically wide as she spits some Bajoran that he doesn’t quite catch to hear translated. “It’s not him,” Leeta repeats again and as Kira whirls almost angrily half supported by Dr. Bashir, Garak catches an apologetic smile and a small shrug of shoulders as he helps her out. Of course he doesn’t think he’s escaped the doctor’s questing clutches quite so easily but he looks forward to the next round. _And speaking of escaping questing clutches..._

“Well, madame, I would be more than happy to assist you in the cleanup since your partner seems to have become lost on his noble quest to find the fabled rags but if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for that stew...” He says it hopefully, thinking it might divert her attention from that terribly beautiful hopeful look that she’s giving him right now. It hurts. It hurts far more than he would have thought but then again he never imagined to see it again after-

 _“To be a Cardassian...”_ She rushes the words out in fluent if oddly accented Cardǎsda. He knows them of course and knows at that same moment the accent is odd not because of her heritage but because the words are spoken in Middle Cardǎsda. But any Cardassian raised properly, educated properly would recognize it nonetheless. _He_ knows them just as he knows by that deeply ingrained concept the answering line that follows, beautifully, perfectly completing the last lines of the poem.

 _“...is to be at war.”_ And he sees then from the shock of her face, from the color leaving, but really from the way she throws her arms around his neck and half sobs “Aamin, Aamin, Aamin,” over and over again that it was the absolute worst possible thing that he could have said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also want to throw in a little bonus Choose Your Own Adventure on this one since I could go either way easily. Drop me a line, Manipulative Garak exploiting this little misunderstanding for his own mission or Noble Garak clearing it up right away? :)


	4. My Little Chickadee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak realizes he has a potential ally just as he realizes someone is out to kill him. And will he ever get to just eat his dinner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your awesome feedback, it's definitely given me some good stuff to work with here. I'm not trying exactly to introduce another character each chapter but it seems to be working out that way so far. And on that note, since this is a weekly update serial type thing while it might not move super quick, consider a chapter a week and it starts to add up to something quite big haha. 
> 
> Also, you might have noticed but I'll mention it here as well so unless otherwise stated, everyone is about 10 years older (give or take) in this story than they were at the start of DS9 the exception being Julian who's right at Garak's age. It just let a lot of things work better and hell people live to be 200 in this franchise so... yeah. Anyway no real warnings for this chapter but perhaps a few more hints of the mystery person in Garak's past.

_Someone is trying to kill me._ Or rather, someone is trying to have him killed. Garak comes to that realization the moment he allows himself a second thought and recalls exactly who Aamin Marrtiza is. _Correction. Who Aamin Marritza_ _was_ _. Aamin Marritza, Bajoran sympathizer found guilty for crimes against the State, namely the escape of detainees at Galitep along with impersonating a high ranking official._ Though Garak certainly had to hand it to him for the dramatic flair with which he addressed the Central Command along with Bajoran Provincial Government, and likely anyone else within frequency range, having remade himself as Gul Darhe’el. It was a fool’s errand in the end and took nothing more than a simple DNA run to prove exactly who he was. _Yes,_ _was_ _is certainly the key word in this equation and it’s a rather poignant one that this woman seems to be lacking._ The woman- Leeta who has been whispering a rushed series of endearments to his ear rather nicely while he’s considered all the evidence with a soft circle to her bare back, his thoughts flowing far too easily to distraction.

 _The dress must not begin then for at least another few inches and your hand is already quite low, Elim._ Really, that should’ve been his first thought soon followed be her shape, her scent- some light flowery smell and... kanar, yes that’s definitely some earthy homebrew of kanar _Gul_ how did he not notice how she rather smells of... home. Garak swallows hard knowing that he’ll need far more time to piece together the scant facts he has to go by, and knowing that it’s certainly not going to happen here and now while she just... _breathes_ against him in that achingly beautiful way. She seems content in that breathe of moment that he is in fact her lover returned under the guise of aging tailor which itself is just another guise for Obsidian Order agent Elim Garak. _And even_ _that_ _is just another layer upon layer of some pitiful thing at the bottom that hasn’t been with a man or a woman in a good few years._ Garak sighs, knowing it’s just another misunderstood gesture in a long series of unintentional cues that he’ll need to clear but he allows this indulgence, this warmth for as long as he dares.

 _But then... it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To just pretend, to let her believe that you’re he and you know now that there’s certainly no chance he’ll show up to refute the claim, or even his family for that matter. Not to a Bajoran and never for a traitor they’ve likely disowned, no, it would be just too terribly easy to have this neatly sewn up, make a few discreet inquiries when you’re able and allow her to fill in the blanks for you. What’s one more thing in your life built upon a lie, after all? It would be so easy._ Garak squeezes her tighter even allowing his lips to touch the warm skin of her neck. _It would be so Gul’s damn easy._ He lets himself savor, to commit to memory the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him, the curve of her hip, the tense muscles of her back as she turns her head just as she must have countless times for that ridiculous fool Marritza in the past. And that smell- that near delirious aura of home, of Mila even in it’s own odd way. _Just one little lie, Elim. Just one. Is one lie really so much to have this, to have something as yours?_

Garak lets her go. It wouldn’t be his of course, it would be a dead man’s and while Garak might not be a particularly noble man he is a man of dignity. _At least as much dignity as one can claim while fondling a woman under a deceitful premise._ Dignified. Not perfect. He makes a wager as to which hand she’ll hit him with. The odds favor the right. 

“You’re not, him.” Leeta says it before he can say a word and really, what can one say to such a bald statement of fact?Garak sighs prepared to accept whatever retribution seems fitting- within reason that is. Instead she just looks at him sadly, infinitely sad and he can see that in spite of whatever sound he heard earlier she has not in fact shed a single tear. When she looks at him of course he imagines a waterfall behind those dry eyes and she just shoots him a sad little smile and forces a small laugh. He wonders if perhaps this isn’t the discomfort that most people feel when seeing his own grinning face in their darkest moments. _Well now, that certainly would explain a lot._

“So... was it good for you?” Another small laugh. Not angry, not bitter, just terribly lonely, and Garak would have never thought himself a man weak to a guilt trip of even the most heart wrenching proportions. Except this isn’t a guilt trip, and that he decides it what makes it the most sympathetic. _No, those aren’t the self centered tears of an adolescent girl who fancies herself a woman. That’s the sadness of a woman who likely doesn’t remember what it’s like to be able to cry at all._

“Good enough to make me deeply regret that I’m not in fact Aamin Marritza,” he answers and realizes it’s strangely true. Not for the reasons she might imagine but that doesn’t seem terribly important. Garak finds his usual wit has deserted for just a moment as he hedges cautiously. “If I had news of him, would you-”

“He’s dead,” Leeta declares with a finality that he doesn’t argue. She wipes her hands over her skirts smoothing them, taking a few steps back. “I thought I knew that ya know? I thought I believed it back then... when he never showed up but... Guess I held out hope. But I felt it just now. I mean I’m not saying you hug like a dead man or anything but it’s just a... a feeling.” Leeta shakes her head breathing out exaggerated, the gesture intended to lighten the mood as her breath puffs bangs up far worse than they were falling in her eyes. He doesn’t know her nearly well enough to brush aside that easy facade.

“You have my assurances that’s far from the worst I’ve ever heard a woman say about my embrace.” He smiles at her with a slightly self deprecating humor. 

She laughed politely and Garak turned to the door. 

“The woman... Kira I believe she’s a... friend of yours?” he gently probes for that little bit of information to see if he can possibly determine  anything further to this mystery. Leeta shakes her head seeming slightly distant all of a sudden.

“We’re not friends we just... share a few of the same memories is all. Maybe not that anymore but hey I didn’t survive all these years worrying what other people thought about me. Let me get you that stew, okay? On the house just this once. I guarantee you’ll be coming back for more.” She stops suddenly in the doorway, fingers touching the wood and Garak notices they’re just a touch unsteady, that lightness in her tone fading out just a fraction of prismatic sunlight refracting off to nothing. She starts, looking about to ask something before thinking better of it. “I wasn’t a collaborator.” _That’s not what you were going to say_. But even so it seems important in its own way. Garak nods. 

“And your cook,” he calls after her as a bit of an afterthought. 

“C’mon, Garak, you seem like a smart fella I’m sure you’ll figure it out!”

Her voice is muffled from the kitchen as as he hears only one set of footprints he shakes his head grinning slightly. Of course. There _is_ no cook. And the Ferengi seems to have been pulled into some fantastical abyss and will likely return in the dawn brandishing some fabled artifact declaring him Grand Nagus or some nonsense like that. No, there is no cook. Only, one angry Bajoran and a subterfuge masking someone who clearly wants to kill him. _Or is that just your paranoia talking?_ He second guesses himself taking a seat at the table this time choosing Dr. Bashir’s chair out of a sense of whimsy. _No, there is paranoia and then there is the perfectly logical questioning of the motives of putting a bounty on a dead man._

Garak pauses, seeing the notebook still lying on the table, small writing implement laying beside it. That grin splits his face wider as he realizes that much like the greedy miners who come to this town dreaming of striking mineral riches in the mountains he’s done in fact just that. _Oh... oh yes, this is absolutely too perfect._ Garak swipes the notebook quickly lest Dr. Bashir return unexpectedly. He notes, before he flips the pages closed and carefully tucks it into the deep pocket of his trousers, that assuming all pages contained writing the book should be at least half full of observations, suspicions, all the little things that the doctor has likely made note of- no pun intended. It’s is a veritable gold mine of information and he can feel himself start to buzz with anticipation at the thought of hurrying up to his room to begin reading, to begin taking his own notes on one of the PADDs in his room. It’s an almost tangible feeling, almost like static making his skin shiver for just a brief flickering moment before it fades away. _Or is that really just your body’s own reaction or something else?_ He doesn’t consider it long.

 _Such, strange technologies they have here,_ he muses to himself not knowing for the life of him why this planet is still so primitive. There’s no indigenous sentient life that he’s aware of. All the inhabitants are from Federation or other similarly advanced worlds. And even if by some strange happenstance the planet were founded by some technology eschewing cult there’s no central government and to the best of his knowledge most of the towns are self contained cultural centers of a variety of different races themselves with little commonality except perhaps their shared speech and lack of technology. _No, not lack per se but difference. A great difference in methodology and application. That damned torture device masquerading as some magical lift should be proof enough of that_. Garak curses once again the immediacy of the mission which hardly allowed for him to download even the few files that he has. Poring over them, the scant paragraphs, clearly dated blurbs has yielded little useful information except a few mentions of Cardassian settlers in the jungle of the West Continent. Garak sighs, and feels that buzz again deciding while he’s waiting that it couldn’t possibly hurt to jot down a few observations to consider while he’s back upstairs. He takes the PADD out from his other pocket powering it on and... and realizing that it’s not in fact powering on.

 _That’s odd, it was only in sleep mode and there was certainly plenty of power cycling through the caps so why would it?..._ He frowns, trying a few more times before putting it away. He’s no engineer by any stretch and even if he were he lacks the tools and diagnostics needed even for this simple task. But that doesn’t hold his attention for long, the thick rich broth of the stew wafting out the door to the kitchen before he even looks up. The broth is the strongest, the root vegetables giving an earthy flavor and aroma when blended with the stock, simmer bones meaty, fatty, the top skimmed until every mouth is silk with just enough flour added to coat the tongue richly. He feels almost like a child waiting for the bowl, waiting for the street vendor to hand him the heatproof dish that somehow still feels warm and he sees Leeta come out with that same large spoon just made for dipping. He remembers hearing once that a man knows he’s old when a culinary dish excites him far more than a sexual one but even with that nagging at him the sight of dark leafy greens peeking over the bowl and the few white bits of meat perfectly flaked in almost a swirl of symmetry makes him just not give a damn.

Still, he contains that flash of nostalgic exuberance to a small resettle in the seat as Leeta sets the bowl down accompanied with a small saucer of the pale yellow sauce. _There is no way. Oh there is no possible way without a replicator that the proper conditions could ever be cultivated for the main ingredient, for the yeasts, for the heart of the tang for the-_

“First one’s on the house,” Leeta reminds him and Garak can see as his hand practically trembles taking that tiny saucer with a small whiff, an olfactory sample that should he eat this whatever price on the menu will hold him in its thrall forever. Perhaps it was too soon to deny his mistaken identity after all. Garak sighs pouring a small circle to settle over the top and seep in the faint bubbling from the chemical reaction already starting. _By the Guls it_ _is_ _the real thing._

Garak takes the spoon and says a silent prayer to ancestors he no longer believed in. He pauses when he feels eyes on him, _her_ eyes to be specific. He knows it’s her, he feels the expectation in that gaze and realizes that for all her words, for all her cold call to reality-

“How did you know the answer to that line, Garak?” _So that’s what stopped her before. Of course, a Bajoran servant no matter how gifted would have no reason to know, to understand the commonality of the poem._ And thus the stare that she fixes him with now, that final confirming question remains the product of a highly deductive mind and not merely the hope of a love blind fool. The answer of course is easy, simple really when it comes down to it . _Of course everyone who paid half a bit of attention in any respectable schooling would know and the fact that this unwise fool used such a common code only speaks to the justice in his execution for a frightening lack of sense if nothing else._

But Garak finds that that answer this time doesn’t easily come to him, and just as Marritza was clearly a fool, Garak is a professional tasked with an assignment of monumental importance, and the time it would take to truly work trust to a solid ally is a slow and cautious trek. But here is a gift, given to him with a far less complicated charade to maintain. He stares hard at that spoon held steadily in his hand, allowing it to waver just a trace for her benefit. He once more calls Marritza to mind, and now that that memory has been unlocked, a million others flood his brain as vividly as if he were still seeing them: the spectacle of his denouement, his trial, everything down to his last pathetically sobbed words that give Garak exactly what he needs. That garbled mess of nonsense hits him with the realization that it was not in fact nonsense at all but a plea to the woman currently standing at Garak’s side, hope hanging on the next words that he speaks. _But hope is nothing but cruelty masquerading as kindness as they would say- as_ _you_ _would say- to any initiate into the order._ He ducks his head, turning away just a fraction, breathing deeply, carefully, sure to convey every proper emotion.

“I can’t tell you that... Leelin.” 

A gasp, a hand to her breast, to her mouth, whatever gesture of shock he can practically _feel_ it as he can feel that desire of hers to run back to him again.  He forestalls it with a raised hand.

“But you know. If Aamin Marritza is dead, and I’m not saying he is-” and nor did he earlier in fact, “then perhaps you might consider there to be a reason. Perhaps you might consider that he must remain that way for the present if not for the future, if not even for a lifetime.” _Namely because he is in fact dead._ Garak sets the spoon down knowing he still has time before anything truly starts to cool to below optimal temperature. “Perhaps you might even consider that as you said he does not feel like he ought to to you and there are reasons for that as well.” _Namely because I am not he._ “And lastly, you might consider as well that if he is returning now but not to you, not to your dutiful and faithful heart then there must remain that last undisclosed reason that he dare not speak.” _Namely a vengeful sycophant named Dukat and a paranoid old man named Tain conspiring to make his erstwhile predecessor’s life a living hell if not ending it altogether._

Garak considers the yamok sauce slowly becoming one with the stew, his legs just a small impatient twitch.

“I hope that you can tell me that you... understand what I’m saying to you.” He hears a step closer, the loud clack of a heel on the hard floor before it retreats back. He briefly prays that this doesn’t end with any further cloying sentiment that might settle poorly in his stomach. If she doesn’t disappoint him he might appropriate Dr. Bashir’s paper for his own use should the PADD prove to be a loss; he has a strange suspicion the sudden demise might not be limited to the unit on his person. _Contact number one. Oh for Gul’s sake if you cannot remember one single name in the vole’s nest infesting that head of yours-_

“I understand.” Leeta answers slowly choosing her words carefully. Garak listens, the silence of the room, the acoustics letting her voice echo so that even he can hear every nuance with clarity. He is certain to take nothing for granted, sure that his face is not so much a shrewd study of her tone, but instead the raw expectation of a man betting his life on the woman who has spent by his estimation the better part of a decade awaiting his return.

 _“How can I ever know what you’re thinking Elim when you lie just as easily as you breathe?”_ Words meant to hurt spoken by one of the few with the ability to do so. The fact that they didn’t was the moment that Garak knew it was over between the two of them. That maudlin memory flush to the surface hovering, skimming the top like bright algae allows that ruse its most genuine effect. 

“Aamin Marritza is dead,” she repeats carefully and this time it sounds far more like the truth. _Good. Good girl._ “But as for you... Garak. Do what you have to do, right? And so will I. I’m good at that, ya know? But if you need me... whatever you need.” Those heels walk towards him this time and he just knows but that instinct that’s served him so well the exact moment to turn, to breathe deeply, raise his hand and let her fingertips touch his for that fleeting moment. The hand doesn’t linger. Her eyes do. But that’s a look shared only between the two of them when the door opens abruptly and a man steps through with a strangely incomplete face half shrouded by the brim of a wide hat there is nothing to witness.

Garak watches him carefully. Leeta less so as she makes to fuss with his plate the picture of steady professionalism. _Ah, the lessons we learn from the occupation as conquerer and conquered._  

“Evening, Sheriff Odo,” Leeta calls out brightly heading back towards the kitchen, the address for Garak’s benefit alone.“I guess you’ve been to the doctor’s already, huh?” _Yes, very good girl, and a very wise decision, Elim._ Garak watches as the man walks towards him with a small incline of his head to Leeta. 

“Briefly, Miss Gallek...” _Gallek? That’s a Cardassian surname. And as I live and breathe there is no way possible that this woman has enough Cardassian blood to have such an honor. Another thing to be investigated._ “...assure you, given the circumstances my visit here should be brief as well as long as I have cooperation.” Garak looks up to find the sheriff staring at him with the look of a fellow inquisitor. That pleases him. Tight security has always been beneficial to his method of operation. 

“I can only assume judging by the evidence that you are Mister Elim Garak nee Aamin Marritza.” Garak looks pleasantly, innocently back.

“Just Garak. No Mister. Just plain, simple, Garak.” The look he receives in return promises that while the sheriff’s visit to the restaurant may be short, Garak’s time with him likely will not be.

“Is that a fact?” Garak spares one last half despondent thought for the stew that will have to wait for another night as he stands. 

“Facts, Sheriff,” Garak begins easily knowing he’s doing himself no favors with the tact he’s taking, “are very curious things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to this tumblr post for the note on Cardassian endearments. It was exactly what I needed! http://tinsnip.tumblr.com/post/118648731219/im-wondering-if-there-are-any-cardassian-terns-of


	5. Come On Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak gets an unexpected morning visit from a panicked Leeta along with a curious guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot grows and admittedly gets a touch silly for some of the tone but it can't be all serious all the time. Slowly going to be bringing in more of the cast. Not exactly a character of the week deal but we'll see how it goes. I ended up rewriting this from scratch like twice so I think I'm good with where this is. I had a bit of a long conversation with someone about the direction/pacing of the story. I know there are readers (and sometimes I'm one of them haha) who would prefer that the main pairing be gotten to and established quickly with all the good stuff that goes with it but for this I really wanted to build the entire world, cast, plot, slowly since this is going to span an extremely long span like the original show. So that's where we are with that. Having said that much appreciation to all my readers just hanging out and enjoying the ride.C&C is always welcome.

“Your life is in danger, Aanya.” Garak turns, but to even his own amazement, doesn’t start at the loudly spoken words. Said words, follow the heavy door flying open into the wall hard enough to rattle the nonsense knickknacks on the shelf. The interruption is sudden but not unexpected after the loud conversation he’d overhead from downstairs a few minutes prior. In the time it takes him to look up Garak carefully but not unnaturally closes the notebook and pushes it aside. He still hasn’t been able to crack the cypher; it hadn’t occurred to him there would even _be_ a cypher in the doctor’s seemingly innocuous journal, but there it was, yet another mystery to be solved. To be fair to his own abilities, this is the first morning he’s awoken without any pain. He’d woken early, in fact, blessedly clear headed, even the dull headache and lingering ocular occlusion of the previous day having passed. That unpleasantness itself preceded by days in bed, lost time, another miserable affront to his dignity as Leeta cheerfully volunteered to be his nursemaid until his “migraine” had passed.

Of course that hadn’t been in the plan- the implant normally allowed him enough mitigation of subsequent symptoms to function normally with a happy little bit of hypospray full of whatever opiate was most readily available. The implant, much like the PADDs had failed spectacularly. All of it had failed at the same time that night. That moment when he felt that buzz, that thrum, that had to have been it. Electromagnetic storms, reactions from the copious veins of ore beneath the surface, the makeup of the planet itself- these were a series of explanations Leeta attempted to provide when she brought tea for his “migraine” the following morning. She was clever but no scientist and Garak decided that the specifics would have to be gleaned from someone who was. Someone who could explain and then tell him how to work around it. Because Garak didn’t believe for a moment that in spite of the easy capitulation of the majority of the planet’s populace to the strictly mechanical based technology that it could not be worked around- at least in a temporary measure for what he would need to accomplish later.

Such a vital yet convenient piece of information to be left out of the intelligence he received. A curious thing but it fit quite nicely with the rest of the narrative so far. But what it all came down to, whether by deliberate machination or bureaucratic failing hardly mattered at this point- was that nothing worked. Nothing brought from above so terribly dependent on all those electronics, circuits, wires, none of it, it seemed could be shielded from the planet’s whimsical effects. And sitting there with no one but her, speaking to him in fluent Cardǎsda he never realized it had failed.

She speaks now, the words a bastardized mix of Bajorai and Cardǎsda almost offensive to his ears. _Aanya... a quaint portmanteau of Aamin and “dead”._ He didn’t question the address when she murmured it to him the first time finding the morbid pet name amusing in its own ironic way. The manner in which she spoke it also told him it wasn’t a new idea thought up on a whim. _Such a curious relationship. Nothing like the banal star crossed nonsense you’d envisioned now, is it, Elim?_ But it was a relationship with weight, history, and he’d thought he was prepared for whatever it may have entailed, until now.

Garak looks at her curiously, instinct pulling his face to a perfectly polite mask even as he realizes her current state of dress, or lack thereof. _My, that’s a sight to wake up to._ The garment, of course is perfectly in step with the trending female evening wear he’s studied during his brief sojourn, but reading a description of the _peignoir_ on a page versus seeing it in the flesh is certainly a change. _A quite welcome change in fact._ It’s a sheer white garment and sheer, Garak notes, while printed on a page conjures up a certain expectation. An expectation that falls perfectly flat in the face of a body that is anything but. He catches himself before politely averting his eyes knowing that no matter the circumstances there’s no way that the man he isn’t quite pretending to be would look away from his former betrothed like some celibate old man. Garak looks, of course. He looks at the way the silk curtains her body, those slight ties carelessly knotted between her breasts which are in no way hidden by that layer of gauzy white. If anything their fullness is only accentuated by the fabric clinging- doubtless a result of the dry air- beautifully hugging the rounded curves. Garak’s fingers carefully curl just a bit tighter around the writing implement in his right hand- a pen-sill if he recalls the name- and he cannot help the idle caress of his thumb around the pink eraser. _Doubtless tip of this device has nothing on such magnificent... Oh for Gul’s sake you’re behaving no better than a boy seeing his first naked female._

That bit of self recrimination itself is hardly enough to pull his thoughts from their sudden lascivious turn as his eyes sweep down the curve of her wide flaring hips to that extra fold of fabric down the center. The lace trimmed silk just covers her sex enough to create that illusion of propriety while doing nothing but stir him to want to pull it aside and- _And sire a passel of half breed bastards at your age, yes, the perfect way to end your career, Elim. Why not simply write Tain now and tender your resignation, along with your Cardassian citizenship, while you’re at it?_ He sighs inwardly at that internal splash of cold water forcing the two trains of thoughts distinct if parallel. _If nothing else it will be a far better substitute for your fantasies than- wait, danger?_ Garak sits up straight, aware with a great sense of relief that all of that nonsense has passed in a mere matter of moments. He is immediately on alert, eyes quickly taking stock of the few feet to the weapon beneath the bed before he settles on staying put, his hand dropping beneath the desk to the weapon makeshift fastened to the underside facing the door. He leaves the safety on while she remains standing there.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage this morning, my dear. Now I may not have come down to breakfast but I can assure you that your expert care these past few days has ensured my continued well being at least until lunch time.” There’s a little screw up of her nose at his attempt to calmly diffuse the situation and she waves at him like a put upon feline three paws of her hand to the air for him to be silent. He’d find it insulting if it wasn’t somehow also amusing. Garak takes his had from the gun determining that her earlier theatric was likely for the dear departed Marritza’s scatterbrained benefit. He sees her turn, looking down the hall, anxiously and he stands, deciding the aether gun free in his hand would be a better defense. He realizes, however, that she isn’t holding her own gun, and he sees the strap around her thigh now that his thoughts have turned to more practical matters. It still holds the holstered small pistol- a modern two shot spin on an old derringer model, she helpfully supplied while sitting by his bedside the other night- likely loaded with the rather impressive high caliber rounds but otherwise undrawn. _So then whoever she’s looking for now, is not the enemy._

Garak takes that brief moment to secure his own weapon and holster, and for modesty’s sake finishes buttoning the open linen shirt he’d thrown on upon waking. He doesn’t wait long before he sees the Ferengi, Rom, appear in the doorway next to her. He cannot help the extra blink as she ushers him inside and shuts the door closed behind them both locking it quickly. Garak is admittedly brimming with curiosity but he waits patiently- this is her show after all, and a much better one than he’s had in some time- taking note of a strange rolled parchment in Rom’s hand as the two of them look at each other.

“Is that it?” Leeta asks in a hush, Garak definitely wondering now what “it” may be. He sees the vigorous nod and idly considers her ease at being in such a state of undress near a man that she is not married to, and seemingly not romantically involved with. He supposes he ought to be jealous but then again Rom seems to be far more at ease with her state of undress than clothed, hardly paying it any mind. _Well, Elim, he_ _is_ _a Ferengi, after all. But as to the paper-_

“Show him Rom,” Leeta says looking chagrined as she looks to the contents of the large unfurled page, worrying her lower lip admittedly adorably. Garak clasps his hands behind his back expectant, waiting, that nervous look on Rom’s face as he turns it almost giving him pause. ...that is until he sees it and cannot for the life of him fathom what in the name of the State has the two of them in such a flurry. There is a drawing. That is the biggest kindness he can give the piece- acknowledging it _is_ in fact a drawing. He can tell from the half deformed chufa that it’s supposed to be a Cardassian. The ridges are... exaggerated to say the least and there’s a rather comically sinister cast to the visage, practically a snarl to the face, a somewhat unflattering inking of spots of some marking that makes the poor creature look half Trill. The face is plump, overfed to be sure, and the coif resembles more some antiquated eastern human warrior than a true Cardassian with any sense of decorum. He can feel a half hiccup in his throat, aware that it would be terribly bad manners to suddenly erupt in gales of mirth while both Rom and Leeta look at him expectantly. He isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to be taking away from the hysterically bad rendering of some poor Cardassian soul who had the misfortune to-

 

_“Wanted: Dead or Alive_

_Aamin Marritza_

_5000 bars Gold Pressed Latinum”_

 

No. Absolutely not. Garak stares at the words, mouth falling open. He cannot help it, he truly cannot as he realizes with proper horror- not for the reason they’re thinking he’s positive- as he takes another look at the offensive caricature.

“Is that...” Garak feels his face getting unnaturally hot, and he thinks if he was a pink skinned mammalian race his face would very well be close to purple. As it stands he can feel the hot flush of his ridges, the swell of anger, and the thought that it’s likely only making him more closely resemble that ghastly image does nothing to help bring it under control. “Is that supposed to be me!?” He points, dumbly, not entirely sure what to do with his hands aside from stalk forward and rip the offending parchment into a million little pieces, the thought of that missive circulating the entire planet in a slow wave making him almost faint with nausea. “Tell me that... Oh... Oh come now... you cannot honestly believe that...” Garak swallows, calling unconsciously on the implant to bring the wild emotion to bear and of course coming up with nothing. _Training, Elim, for Gul’s sake, remember your training! You don’t need an implant. Really. It’s... it’s funny if you think about it isn’t it? Yes... funny..._

“It looks just like him,” Rom states matter of factly to Leeta and Garak decides in that moment that if it takes him a hundred years he will murder that man. He will eviscerate him with his own tooth sharpener. He will-

“It really does,” Leeta agrees sadly, worried, and Garak would be moved by her concern, truly, if he didn’t feel so completely betrayed. But it’s that sobering thought that tempers his near outburst, his pulse, his respirations coming back to an acceptable metric. Garak attempts to keep that disappointment from showing too much on his face.

“Well as... uncanny as a resemblance as it may be,” he forces out sounding more constipated than conciliatory, “I still fail to quite see the emergency that would cause you to rush in here in such a state at such an early hour.” _Yes, redirect the conversation to something other than the further assassination of your character and perhaps we can make this into a useful conversation._ “I believe the matter was resolved with the good sheriff when we spoke the other night.” _If by resolve one means to pay an ungodly sum of latinum to expedite a... telly-gram off world to confirm that one Aamin Marritza is dead as a record of Central Command and that two the dossier for my alias holds up._

Leeta nods, walking towards him looking no less satisfied. She knows. Of course she knows now of his “death” in grand fashion- Garak found much to his surprise he’d in fact memorized a good bit of that verbal diarrhea- complete with dialogue, just as she also “knows” that there’s a lot that she doesn’t and shouldn't know, but in the end both truth and falsehood are preserved in beautiful harmony.

“I had Odo let me know as soon as he heard from his contacts.” She puts her hands on his shoulders in a gesture he’s sure is meant to be comforting, but all he can do is wonder how a man who railed with such vitriol against the Cardassian government, for a good two hours before being dragged bodily away, could be so frail. “It isn’t good.” _It isn’t good? What could possibly be so complicated about-_ “Marritza isn’t dead,” she says slowly, carefully and Garak’s hands move to hers, easing them gently from his shoulders.

“Go on,” he encourages with a pat to those soft hands held between the two of them, his mind a whirl of questions. “What about me? What about Garak, my dear?” And after the first revelation he knows better than to expect anything but the obvious. If this one crucial piece of easily verified public record is somehow missing then that can only mean one thing.

“They don’t show any record of Elim Garak before leaving the LaGrange point. Nothing. It’s like you don’t...” she swallows, and he doesn’t need to listen to hear him fill in the rest of the sentence as he keeps the careful pretense, giving her hands a quick squeeze before stepping back. The way the Ferengi is looking at him it seems that it won’t do to appear too friendly. _Okay, Elim, so we need to consider the evidence at hand quickly. First, a very public piece of information is being blocked from reaching on world. Anywhere else in the galaxy you have access to any number of pieces of evidence verifying your claims but short of dragging a witness off of Cardassia itself whatever communications, whatever intermediary is fielding these from Cardassia is altering them, and here you’re left with nothing. Or possibly they’re being filtered from Cardassia itself- Gul’s_ _balls_ _you need to find out more to how this even works. You’re not supposed to have any contact until the designated time and it’s far too easy to monitor who goes on and off world from above for you to be able to try and check yourself. And then we come to the second part, that being that Elim Garak apparently no longer exists not as a tailor, an agent, not even as his own person. Ah, but then again you haven’t been your own for decades now, Elim so why pretend it bothers you now?_

But in the end it reaches back once more to the same conclusion that someone is very much trying to kill him and he considers Leeta’s frantic entrance and the confrontation he heard quite well from the common room below.

“Yes, well as you can see I very much exist in the world and you both have my assurances that whatever the cause of this misunderstanding it will be cleared up.” He looks at Leeta’s unconvinced stony expression. “My dear, the day that I cannot handle one angry Bajoran female...” And he winces internally seeing a dangerous flash in her eyes at those dismissive words and he curses his carelessness. _Yes, surely that fool Marritza would hardly cache it in those terms now, would he? Doubtless he saw the lot of us holding hands in some nonsense Bajoran prayer or whatever it is they do._ “My apologies for my poor choice of words. They say...” He pauses for dramatic effect. “when they alter you,” he takes care not to be too explicit on who _they_ may in fact be, “that it changes you.” He allows that to sink in while he studies Rom who is studying not him, but the room itself, pacing the perimeter measuring tape in hand as he starts scribbling on the back of that offensive poster. _Lovely, now there’s reason to preserve it from immediate destruction._

“Oh, Aan-“ Garak bring a finger to his lips and Leeta immediately nods cutting off the private name. _Yes, poor Aamin, oh woe is he forced by nefarious persons to slip into this foreign skin, doomed to be alienated, irreparably separated from his one true love. Such a tragedy, sentimental drivel that could only be penned by a human._ But she believes it, and that’s all that matters right now. Leeta stands up straighter, pulling herself back together quickly, not allowing that emotion to show through any longer. _Good, good girl._ “Kira isn’t the problem, Garak. That poster’s the problem. They could’ve pulled them if the story checked out but it didn’t. I took care of Kira. I mean... we have an agreement and it’s probably better I don’t tell you anything on that okay? But that price? Every bounty hunter on the continent’s gonna be after your head.”

“Five thousand bars is enough to pay off the whole building.” Rom pauses at Garak’s raised eye ridge. “Not that I would do that. I have five thousand saved up anyway.”

“You mean _Quark_ has it for “safekeeping”,” Leeta interrupts with a disapproving purse of her mouth.

“Quark needs it to invest,” he agrees obliviously. “But you know he’s not going to approve these modifications.”

“Who says I’m asking him?” she fires back crossing her arms with a smirk, red hair, fire, looking just damned beautiful. But not enough so to belay Garak from asking the obvious.

“Modifications?” Not that he doesn’t already have a good idea when a quick glance behind him reveals an early sketch of wall plating, coupled with a series of what he can only assume is a composite of hair trigger booby traps. It’s enough to make the ridges of his spine prickle uncomfortably.

“For security,” she clarifies and he already imagines a macabre scene unfolding wherein he rolls off the bed and triggers an erupting coil of metallic teeth from beneath the floorboards. It reminds him of the old classic Parmalat stories, in which a cast of unfortunate characters must navigate the well guarded rooms of an eccentric old relative’s compound- a relative who’d having having passed without any shri tal. Secret after secret is revealed for the lucky soul who can unravel all the traps and triggers to the end; usually everyone dies. _Yes, the cautionary tales of why one should never die without having a shri tal, or rather why one should be sure to hover around aging relatives like some carrion feeder lest they die unexpectedly and you’re forced to contend with others for the throne as it were._ Garak never understood why the main protagonist didn’t just wait til the end and have the rest killed.

But Garak is hardly as concerned as Leeta is for his safety from what is doubtless to be a potential revolving door of opportunistic and more than likely grossly incompetent fortune seekers scouring the globe to make good on killing whatever poor creature happens to resemble that dubious likeness. No, his reflexes could most certainly use a good workout and he _is_ terribly out of practice from such nostalgic threats to his life. He isn’t even particularly concerned with whatever Parmalatian series of vole traps Rom is dreaming up, he can surely talk Leeta into something far more sensible, he’s certain of that. But as for the true threat itself...

“Of course, and I look forward to continuing the discussion of my continued good health after a savory breakfast but might I inquire as to the _other_ part of my request of the good sheriff?” He refers of course to the matter of who set the bounty on a dead man in the first place and then planted the clues for all roads to lead to him. Because the number of people who possessed the connections to know Leeta’s whereabouts are surely not so numerous, unless the leaks in the Order are far larger than Tain led him to believe.

Leeta shakes her head.

“Nothing yet which is strange because that information is usually pretty easy to come by.” He sees that concern resurface, far too personal for just another tenant but he already suspects she may have let Rom in on more than she should have. _How novel, a trustworthy Ferengi._ Still, it’s a habit she’ll need to rectify and he’s only too happy to change the subject. If he cannot make headway on mystery number one then perhaps he can continue with the second. Garak solicitously steps around Rom making notes near the foot of his bed to a small scented perfumed card resting at the corner of the desk.

 

 _“Jadzia Dax; tour guide, translator, Trill extraordinaire.”_

 

“In that case, perhaps you can put me in touch with this person who I had the chance to meet a week ago while enjoying my dinner. I believe she may be able to assist me if her knowledge of Federation Standard is as proficient as I suspect it to be.” _Never let it be said that Elim Garak is too proud to consult an expert when it is called for and if you’re confident in your abilities to decipher the code of one frontier doctor, then clearly the issue is the language itself. Yes, Dr. Bashir, I believe it is time to see what role you’re to play in all of this._


	6. Dirty Sally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak meets Jadzia and through her careful tutoring comes that much closer to uncovering the mystery of Doctor Bashir's notebook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made it for the Sunday update and had a lot of fun bringing Jadzia in here. I really think there was a lot of missed potential in the interaction between these two characters (and a lot of characters with Garak really) so I'm glad I get to play with that here. It's been fun seeing what roles i can fit everyone into that might not necessarily parallel their original roles perfectly but let me explore some other facets to them as well. But anyway, thanks to everyone reading. The plot may or may not thicken here or Garak may just be his lovable paranoid self. Thank to everyone reading. C&C is always welcome!

_“I’m not a prostitute.” That was how Jadzia Dax introduced herself to him when they first met on the large porch of “Guinan’s House of Intangible Goods.” He’d taken her hand with a small bow, a small polite smile as he kissed her fingers in some gesture he’d seen repeated more than once by many a suitor and suitor hopeful to a potential partner._

_“Neither am I,” he offered by way of greeting in return and saw her smile of amusement in return confirming his read of her dead on. He was thankful to note that he wasn’t losing his touch. “As I recall your card indicated tour guide, translator, and... Trill Extraordinaire.” He stepped back. “I must agree, you_ _are_ _quite extraordinary, my dear.”_

_“Well now, flattery will get you everywhere but you know...” she’d stepped around him taking a seat on a cushioned wooden porch swing that seemed to made to accommodate two in a moment of intimacy and little else. “Money talks, Mister?...”_

_“Garak,” he answered, taking a seat not allowing himself to be intimidated nor fall into the trap of being overly familiar. He allowed just a brief glance to the plunging neckline of the emerald dress before continuing with a quick flash of a few slips of latinum. “Just Garak, that is. No Mister. And I assure you we Cardassians are quite fond of our... speech.”_

_“Well Garak, I think you and I might have a good few things to discuss after all.”_

A good few things turning into several hours of a consultation on that small swingwhich led him to reveal his initial confusion over the meaning of the phrase “intangible goods.” It was not in fact a euphemism for the trade of more intimate services but rather an attempt to define the indefinable in selling time, expertise, exorcisms, a plethora of quite intangible things- in the case of Jadzia cultural consultation and translation services- to a more material minded Ferengi patron. Although, according to Jadzia there were a handful of who did supplement their income by more carnal means and should he ever find himself in need of a skilled practitioner of Oomox she could certainly put him in touch with a woman. Garak demurred but was pleased to find that Jadzia was exactly what he was looking for in a teacher. After the first visit the following day he found himself busy with several assignments while Rom, and Mr. O’Brien surprisingly, worked out the specifics of his room redesign. All with Quark’s reluctant blessing under the promise of increased profits from the suite- and oh yes it was in fact a several room redesign- of maximum security rooms. This had been supervised by his erstwhile darling, taking the notion of protecting her beloved “Aanya” to almost frightening levels.

Yes, Garak had found himself looking forward to the second visit since Doctor Bashir had made himself strangely scarce following that incident and Leeta had found herself far too busy no matter how hard she tried to balance her extra work with keeping him company. _And really, Elim, the poor woman’s been running herself ragged on your behalf, you practically owe it to her to get out of her way for awhile._ There is also the lure of conversing with so many new people, a luxury he hasn’t been able to enjoy in years since his assignment began on Terok Nor. And what a pleasure today, for her hair is swept back, a pile of carefully pinned tresses interlaced with colorful threads and a bright green pin at the apex. The bustier is teal, not quite a matching shade, but a similar color palette, trimmed with black, boosting up everything that it needs to. The corset is cinched tight, though not forming an unnaturally slender waistline as he’s seen on some, but just enough to draw attention. Her left leg is crossed, some might say immodestly revealing the lace top of the black garter stocking; fishnet is the style he’s been informed , the strap disappearing somewhere amidst a flurry of crinoline, of almost shimmery fuchsia, a material of which he’s yet to discern. It is perhaps what some staid thinkers might call a clash of colors but he absolutely loves it.

He’s perhaps overly effusive in telling her so.

“I don’t know,” she answers, a black gloved finger examining his newly tailored red vest. “I think you might be worth a few slips of latinum yourself.” Her expression is mischievous, an easy and comfortable pattern they’ve fallen into. Garak sighs dramatically.

“A few _slips_? I will have you know on Farius Prime I commanded no less than four _strips_ of latinum for just an hour of my... company.” She fans herself with a shake of her head.

“I think that might be a bit out of my price range but how about we call it even after today’s lesson?” Garak glances at the large stack of books, word puzzles, various brain teasers and parchments all in Federation Standard resting to the side. _Hardly, my dear, after the work you’ve put in it’d be fair to say I’m getting the much better end of the arrangement thanks to your pedantic dedication._ He might find himself hard pressed by his own calculations should she raise the price but he keeps himself charming and knows nonetheless even if she does he’ll pay it. Word play, double entendres, even the scourge of the layman that is puns, have been laid out before him and he’s taken pains to absorb ever last bit of it finding that his proficiency in Federation Standard has grown by leaps even in this short time.

_The translator has become such a crutch for you, you never realized what you were missing from your purely academic training, Elim. There is a world of conversation, of banter, witticisms and idioms as of yet unexplored with this language that you’d been missing out on. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself such complacence- who knows what you may have missed already._ He glances down at the paper in front of him, something she had called a mad lib, a paragraph full of strange blank spaces where critical words should appear. Despite not seeing the practicality of it, Garak completed his assignment diligently, the accompanying list penned with deliberately awkward handwriting. It certainly wouldn’t to do show too much proficiency with penmanship this early on, and the Federation Standard language is a terribly boring and simple exercise with the stroke of a pen compared to what he’s accustomed to.

“Well now, I can’t speak to the endurance of my tongue after one of your delightful and challenging lessons, Miss Dax, but I will certainly endeavor to give it... the old college try, is that how you would properly phrase that?” His face is the picture of innocence as she searches it before laughing softly and shaking her head.

“If you’re looking to get slapped maybe, but I definitely think you’re getting the hang of it. Are you _sure_ that you’re not just pulling my leg when you say you’re not secretly a master Federation linguist having fun at my expense?” She takes a long drink from the tall glass, a yellow beverage of something called lemonade that Garak has found to be quite refreshing in its sweet tart acidity. He waits, just a moment, the very soul of solemnity as he declares,

“My dear Jadzia, I thought you knew that I’m a very cunning linguist.”

The effect is near instantaneous save for that brief pause as the words sink in. He sees her eyes get wide, a gloved hand going to her mouth as, caught between a laugh and a choke, she swallows half the beverage, the other half snorted, spit out in a series of coughs. He offers her one of the cloth napkins from the table and it’s snatched away with a playful glare in his direction. He sees her pat the spilled drink from her neck, down to the messy dribble between her cleavage- he’s not blind after all not to take just a short glance- and keeps his expression completely neutral.

“Don’t think I’m going to let you get away with that,” she vows, and he doesn’t doubt for an instant that his dignity is in dire peril for the next few days. He’s heard already tales of her “legendary exploits” including one where she’d managed to move everything in the sheriff’s office an inch to the right. Leeta told him cheerfully she’d never heard the sheriff raise his voice like that in all the years she’d lived in Indigo.

Garak smiles at Jadzia, taking a drink of his own lemonade as he watches a gentleman in a long coat, pocketwatch chain coming from inside a vest pocket- and even Garak nearly winced at the overly warm looking layers- walk past their small table on the shady porch, staring at him warily. Garak identifies that parsing of memory, that calling to mind of that ridiculous drawing until at last that recognition dawns and that searching expression turns to an almost accusatory affront that he dare breathe the same air as a law abiding citizen. _Particularly unnerving coming from all those eyes, though. Ah, but make the best of it, Elim, might as well practice your lessons, after all. Pygorians are known traders after all and the more business you can drum up the better position you’ll be in to pay back the extra rate on your room that Leeta has covered out of her own pocket._

“Good day, sir, I see that your discerning eye has detected the rather smart new vest I’m wearing. Now this sophisticated number is made from the finest native oxen leather you’ll find around as I was assured by the tanner.This is my own design of course. I’m a tailor by trade looking to set up shop, so should you find yourself in need of-”

“You’re on the wanted poster in front of the sheriff’s office,” the man remarks bluntly, rather rudely ignoring the well crafted sales pitch. _Really, the day a Pygorian turns down the opportunity to secure a good bargain..._ Though Garak has observed in his short time here that the culture on this world seems to promote a certain amount of posturing that one must adapt to. _Ah, then he too must be native. How quaint._

“Well, I admit they hardly captured me at my best but if you’d like an autograph, I’m afraid the asking price increases as my notoriety grows.” Garak sees his efforts at civility are wasted as the man looks instead to Jadzia.

“I’d watch that one if I were you,” he cautions. “He looks just as shoddy as that picture.” That warning is met with an acknowledging nod, Jadzia ever the teacher however, seems more focused on correcting his language.

“Your accent is improving, Malyo, it’s a lot more natural this time. Though... I think you meant to say he looks as “shady” as the picture.” Jadzia’s eyes dance as she shoots Garak a look. “He’s far too well put together to use an adjective such as shoddy. Put together meaning well groomed, well dressed, or you could say smart. Smart can mean either intelligent or dressed fashionably depending on the context.” _Perhaps not native after all._ She makes a motion for Garak to stand and he indulges her taking the time to show off the careful stitching that were the results of several days of work without the use of more advanced equipment. “I think Garak looks quite smart, don’t you?” Garak turns and finishes with a slight flourish lifting that vest just enough that the hilt of his weapon is visible. He sees the Pygorian open his mouth and then sees it snap shut at the sight of the holstered aether pistol. _Good to see a man who recognizes when he’s outgunned then._ He sits back down proud that even that first impulse purchase turned out to be of such a high caliber weapon- aether possessing more penetrative abilities than even the hardest mithril bullets. _Now how could she have ever known you were armed? Or perhaps it was a mere coincidence._

Either way, the man tips his head with a mutter of “Yeah, he’s real smart all right,” before he ducks through the doorway and Garak sits back down. _Yes, coincidence... the milky libations of the lazy. How irresponsible of you to even consider such a thing, Elim._

“Really,” he states loudly projecting affront to cover that brief introspection, “the Bajorans might _say_ we all look alike but it’s terribly offensive that every person here seems to think that... that crime of visual artistry in any way resembles me.” He takes another drink noting that the more of the beverage he imbibes the thirstier it seems to make him.

“Perhaps just a touch around the mouth. I think I saw a bit of that sneer just now.” She takes that moment of protest to slide the paper away from him reading it over with amusement. Garak watches as her smile blooms larger, full tilt as it were before there’s an indelicate snort and full out laughter the more she reads. He’d read it himself of course, after writing the words down on the opposite sheet following her instruction to the note in not reading ahead. He’s not sure what the joke is in the resultant ball of nonsense though.

“Kirk witnesses the destruction of the sweater but is helpless to thread. The Romulans have perfected an apron that renders their scissors invisible, and Kirk reasons he must fold and trace the enemy wool before it can return home.” At least that’s what it sounds like she’s saying through staggered laughter. Jadzia drops the page, forehead nearly hitting the table as she struggles to regain her breath and he cannot for the life of him fathom what is so funny about the paragraph. There’s nothing inherently amusing about any of the words and inserted into the sentence they do nothing but create an improbable and downright bizarre mental image of Humans and Romulans waging war with tailoring supplies. Perhaps he was supposed to make a better educated guess in choosing the theme of his words? He is about to ask when she holds up a finger, face bright red, the page half discarded as she sits up straight, fanning herself.

“I think... I think we can call it even after that,” she declares to his mystified face.

“Well,” Garak hedges cautiously, “I’m certainly pleased that it was so good for you though I do hope you might explain why such a series of ridiculous sentences is such a cause for amusement?”

“”You know... I haven’t met a Cardassian yet who’s understood the humor behind these.” She files the paper away in a folder, he imagines so that she might meditate more on it later. _It’s a dossier you idiot, you can already see there are other papers. Assume the worst and be surprised when the best happens. You know that._ “I guess the best way to explain it is that the absurdity of the sentences is where the humor is. The more improbable the image, the funnier they are. I’ve never found that type of humor to be popular amongst Cardassians.” She pauses thoughtfully. “At least not the ones that I’ve met to date.” She shifts some of the books on the stack, over the folder he observes, while he once more recalls the images, as he rereads the short piece in his mind filling in each of his words, using his... imagination as it were and though he finds it makes a bit more sense he still can’t quite bring himself more than a small amused quirk of his mouth. He makes a note to work on that in the privacy of his room. That shared humor might come in handy later in forming contacts.

“But I didn’t forget your main area of interest,” Jadzia says as she pulls out two books and a circular piece of parchment, one layered over the other. “Thank you for humoring me.”

“Any time I can tease such a joyous sound from a lovely dining companion I consider the privilege _mine_ ,” he parries back watching her lay out the wheel and turn to a marked page in one of the books.

“Mmm, see now _that_ is how I _know_ that you’re a lot more advanced than you let on, Garak but luckily for you...” She slides the book and the wheel over pointing to a jumble of words, letters seemingly laid out at random. “I had accounted for that when working on today’s lesson. I thought you might find some of the ciphers and cryptographs more interesting; I _also_ haven’t met a Cardassian yet who didn’t enjoy a good word puzzle.” He examines the circle and turns one independent of the other, watching the different letters shift and match up. So then she _has_ been observing him.

“Have you kept company with so many Cardassians?” he asks maintaining that light flirtation.

“A few here and there. The interesting ones longer than others.” She points to the paragraph and in spite of her penchant for loquacity curiously doesn’t dwell on the subject. “This is called a Caesar cipher. The code is a simple substitution based off of this wheel, so if you can determine a few of the letters you can crack the code and figure out the “shift”. That’s the number of spaces the rotation moves.” _This might be a test, then. How convenient, Elim, to find yourself on a world deprived of your most valuable contacts, your tools, your previous ability to find information. Maybe this whole Gul’s damned thing is nothing but a test. A test of what then? Survival? Loyalty? Perhaps Palandine’s speculation that the head of the Order is chosen in some unthinkable and unexpected trial by fire is actually the truth. Yes, and Rokassa juice tastes better warm. You’re living in a fantasy world now. But whatever is going on, you won’t know until you complete your mission and return home and you haven’t even_ _started_ _on-_

“Now.” She sits back, with another sip of her lemonade, taking no more mind of the stained bodice instead, watching him like a pet science experiment. That, he decides, he too obvious but might be a put on for his benefit. “The trick is, how do you determine those first few letters?” Garak looks at her only out of the corner of his eye as he focuses.

“How, indeed,” he murmurs sure that she expects he’ll be asking for a hint any moment. And it would make sense. It’s exactly what he should do to maintain the ruse but he can’t afford that right now. He needs to stretch his ability to think properly and recognize patterns in the language without any outside assistance and the sooner he can acclimate the better. _The most commonly used letter in federation standard is “e”, and only “i” and “a” stand alone... Alright, Elim, say something already._

“So Quark owns this building as well?” Given what he knows of the town and its residents, that’s the only “Ferengi patron” that makes any sense.

“Oh if you ask Quark he owns the whole town... I think Odo might have a few things to say about that though. Between the two of them it’s like game of cat and mouse though who’s the cat, depends on who you ask.” Garak nods, letting her talk, letting her relay any number of schemes that Odo has foiled for the ambitious Ferengi as he decides that “e” is “k” and “a” is “g”.

“Ferengi and their profit... I believe I have it, my dear. This is a shift of six...” He quickly scribbles out the translation, every correlating letter visualized fast in his mind’s eye. She reads the paragraph with a rush of excitement.

“Yes! That’s perfect! Let’s look at a few more and then we’ll see how you fare when the words themselves are altered.” She skims to a different page and he parses the piece fast, the rules of the game making it almost too easy. He forces himself to maintain the same pace.

“I would be most amenable to that if you have the time, of course.” _Shift ten. My, I do hope that this is only the very basics of what humans consider sophisticated obfuscation. I’ll be most disappointed in you, Doctor Bashir, if your little book can be read with nothing more than this child’s play thing._

“I have the time if you have the dime. That’s another old idiom that’s hardly used much. A dime is an ancient form of human currency.”

“You sound like a Ferengi yourself, my dear.” He notes that she doesn’t take the statement as a slight.

“Well I _do_ have a few friends I play tongo with some nights.”

Garak solves the next paragraph quickly, in silence feeling her eyes on him even as she explains the finer points of the Ferengi game. _Careful, Elim._ _She_ _approached_ _you_ _after all with her card, and while it’s natural given her line of work and your newness to the planet that she would seek you out for possible employment, she also seems all too eager to observe. And whatever pride you may take in your appearance, you know it’s not common for certain races to find Cardassians aesthetically pleasing, so you shouldn’t allow yourself to consider genuine romantic interest too seriously._

“Do you really know everyone in this town so well?” he inquires, politely. “Surely not the Klingons as well?” Jadzia smirks, crossing the opposite leg and as she hikes up the skirt just a bit he cannot help but wonder if she doesn’t after all... until he sees the knife tucked snugly into a modified stocking band on that side. No, not just a knife, a d’k tahg. The same design on the grip as the old Klingon’s in the gambling den.

“We came here together, the four of us. But that... is a story for another day.”

“You know we Cardassians absolutely love a good story.”

“Now if you want a good story,” Jadzia begins with a quick look around, “I _did_ hear the most exciting bit of news the other day.”

Garak nods, discreetly flipping ahead some pages on his own to other puzzles beyond those needing the cipher as she stops watching him quite so closely the more she talks about Quark facing off with Odo over some contraband smuggled supposedly in a shipment of kanar. “Py crfl ttntn bcs y mght ntce smthng strng bt th wy ths nxt fw prgrphs r wrttn. t’s mzng hw th mnd cn sly fll n th gps whn w’r rdng wrds tht r sppsd t b fmlr.” He glances once, completely lost before reading it over again carefully, slowly, not one letter at a time but instead taking in the words as they appear, indexing them against everything that he knows until it becomes to painfully clear that it’s nothing but yet another child’s trick. _“Pay careful attention because you might notice something strange about the way these next few paragraphs are written. It’s amazing how the mind can easily fill in the gaps when we’re reading words that are supposed to be familiar.” Oh of course, you fool, it isn’t just a simple cipher, not a simple code but a layering of codes, isn’t it? You know how humans love their layers, layer upon layer, another game, another story, oh so much like you, Elim, that’s just beautiful, isn’t it?_ He smiles, looking back to Jadzia.

“Yes, I can hardly believe it myself,” he answers as if he’s been paying attention the entire time.

_Doctor Bashir, your secrets are soon to be mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, the full mad lib that Garak completes can be found here at Janet's Soapbox http://crumj.blogspot.com/2009/01/star-trek-mad-libs-how-nerdy-can-you.html


	7. Sunset in the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double double, toil and trouble. Julian & Co meet in the cover of night to discuss what to do about the troubling question of Elim Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added an addendum to Chapter 3 for new readers but before I go any further I want to get it out of the way here since this was not in the original plan in writing this story. THERE WILL BE OTHER NON G/B SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS INVOLVING BOTH GARAk, BASHIR, OR BOTH. I realized the more this branched out and the larger the story grew that where I want to go with this does involve other characters to varying degrees, some romantic, some not. I hadn’t wanted to alienate any readers and if anyone is disappointed or feels let down I do apologize for that. I just felt a certain constraint in placing a strict G/B limitation on myself that kept me from exploring a few other things for fun. So while the destination is the same since G/B is pretty much my OTP there are definitely going to be a few detours along the way. I’m hoping the majority of readers will stick around and enjoy the story regardless but I understand if not. 
> 
> Having said that, this chapter actually comes off Garak to focus on Julian. Every so often there will be chapters that focus on other characters and this be one of them. The plot definitely grows and a few twists and turns await so thank to everyone reading, commenting, encouraging me because I received some wonderful encouragement from Prevailing when I really needed it. Thank you everyone for reading, and C&C is always welcome.

“He has my notebook.” Julian Bashir’s face, half obscured in the darkness of the basement’s root cellar is grim. He takes a step back from the sight, fingers carding his sweat dampened hair, and sighs.

“Are you sure?” To his right, Jadzia Dax steps forward to the faintly illuminated periscope and takes a look herself. In the dimly lit night of the small room she sees the Cardassian, Elim Garak, bent over the wooden desk, feverishly scribbling, pencil moving across what is likely scattered pages before he stops abruptly. He stares at a page and she turns a small knob on the main shaft to a 2x magnification. His head shields the majority of it, however, before long he sets it back down, eraser working just as quickly. “Can you alter the angle any? Maybe down another ten degrees? I think I might be too high up now.”

To Julian’s left, Miles O’Brien nods, stepping onto a small stool turning another small dial higher up, slowly, carefully, until Jadzia tells him to stop.

“There. I think...” Julian nearly holds his breath in that moment of silence as she steps away allowing him to take the look once more.He looks carefully, watching those same motions, foot beginning to tap just a touch impatiently.

“C’mon...” Julian whispers softly as he continues to watch. Next to Garak sits a small wooden table folded out, a silver tray with a glass of cold rokassa juice and an indulgent piece of chocolate cake untouched at the centerpiece. Garak has made no motion to reach for either in the time since they’ve been watching. “God it’s like he’s doing it on _purpose_.” Julian steps back again in frustration leaving Jadzia to once more pick up the slack. “You’re certain that he would have no way of knowing it’s here? If the light refracts wrong it’s possible that he could tell something’s off, couldn’t he?” Miles shakes his head.

“There’s no way. I told Gocke exactly what I needed and I know his work. It’s solid. You’d only be able to see it if the side we’re looking for were backlit and unless you or I light a match it won’t be anythin’ but dark. And the rest of the time I got the shutter wound on a timer to close so as long as Leeta winds the hall clock every morning it’ll stay shuttered til the few hours we got now. I had Rom play around with it some when we were working. And with the insulation made to dampen the sound that Cardie bastard won’t hear any of it.” Miles takes a seat of a wooden crate of potatoes.

“I might have to object to your choice of words, Chief,” Jadzia chides him from her position as look out.

“Sorry,” he replies with a roll of his eyes behind her back. “The Cardie _gentleman.”_ She ignores his sarcasm.

“You know, Julian, this is still an awful lot of trouble to go through when you’re still not sure that he even _has_ the book or that he’s-”

“Oh no,” Julian interrupts holding his hands up. “No this is not me or rather, this spyglass might be me but if you’re talking about the room modifications, the insane security measures, the remodel of half the building _that_ is all Leeta’s doing.”

“It was still part of the plan,” she counters mildly. “We needed access to the room to take back the book.”

“Right, we needed access to the room and we coulda done that a million different ways. But who suggested we tear the upstairs apart to fortify the building?” Miles snorts affecting an exaggerated falsetto as he continues. “Oh _Aanya_ is too smart to just fall for anything. _Aanya_ won’t believe anything short of his life being in danger. _Aanya_ trusts me, I’ll handle it.” Miles clears his throat finishing in his normal voice. “She handled it alright. No sign of the book or anything else to tell us who he is and no w the place is locked up tighter than the bloody Borg cube. Couldn’t have darling _Aanya_ stubbing his little toe now, could we? I’m _telling_ , you Jadzia, this Garak, Marritza whatever he’s calling himself is up to something.”

Julian takes a seat next to Miles, consternation molded onto his face like a mask of death. He watches a small black bug slowly crawling across the dirt floor in the darkness.

“Do you think he’s gotten to her? She’s not stupid. She said when the bounty first came down from Central that there’s no way it could possibly be him. Kira thinks she’s protecting him, that every clue pointed to him being Marritza. But I don’t believe for a moment that man- Garak or not- is her lover miraculously returned, especially when she confirmed herself it doesn’t look like him. _Especially_ when there are so many other things _wrong_ with this whole situation.”

“And what if he’s exactly who he says he is, Julian and we’ve gone through a ridiculous amount of trouble for nothing?” Jadzia hasn’t moved the the periscope watching with a particular intensity.

“Leeta thinks he’s a member of the Order,” Julian counters as the beetle starts tracing a line along the seam of wall and floor. “She said it’s the only way he could possibly know the things that he knows short of being Marritza himself, She said Marritza told her once they’re all completely mad, they’re all murderers married to the State, they’re like pah wraiths with scales.”

“I’d say she wouldn’t be too far from the truth with that one,” Miles mumbles. He’s thoughtful at that but shakes his head. “But like you said then what’s his game? Nyissa is hundreds of miles from here and even the nearest town you’d see a Cardie is a day’s travel. He shouldn’t even have any business here.”

“Unless he’s after Leeta,” Julian can’t keep the worry from his voice.

“Nah. He’d have killed her already. Or worse. There’s always _worse._ No, it’s not her he’s after but even so I don’t trust that snake far as I can throw ‘im.” Julian can feel the tension in Miles’ body next to his and he automatically puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels a hand close over his and squeeze in return, his eyes closing briefly as if to savor a lost moment, not daring to speak.

“I think he’s quite charming,” Jadzia protests mildly.

“You think _Quark_ is charming,” Miles fires back with a snort.

“Quark _is_ charming.” Her expression turns serious as she turns to Julian instinctively, not able to see him nearly as well. “You asked me earlier how far along he is, Julian. I don’t think he’s gotten it yet, even if he _has_ the book. We’re not that far in our lessons. He grasped the cyphers easily enough and I think he’s able to read some of the other word form variants... maybe more than he’s letting on but I don’t think he’s anywhere near the level of abstract poetic metaphor that he’d need to be to get it. I’ve held back on some of the other codes, that aside. And you said the primary camouflage of the code itself is based on abstract syllogisms and suppositions that are on a key in your office. He hasn’t _been_ in your office since the day you met him,” she points out. “I can’t imagine even a member of the Order could decipher it that readily.

Julian is tense, and he exhales sharply.

“You’re _sure_ there’s no way into the room now?” he asks Miles, voice climbing just an octave of desperation. “I mean you designed the thing, you and Rom, you can’t seriously mean to tell me you can’t break in for one book?”

“Oh I can break in yer highness, but can I get in and out without Leeta, or Jadzia’s _boyfriend_ finding out? S’not as simple as picking a few locks, the mechanisms on that door, on the _windows_ are designed to spec so’s to keep Mr. Garak from hurting a hair on that sneaky Cardie head of his. And so we do break in, what then? We’ve already been in there and didn’t see anything but a locked suitcase. And even if we find some magic way of picking that lock- and I’ll tell you I took a quick look, yer not getting that thing open without a helluva lot more skill than I’ve got- and we don’t find the book we rouse his suspicions. Shoulda let Kira finish what she started if ya ask me.”

“I don’t want him _dead_ ,” Julian hisses, his voice sounding horrified at the prospect. “I mean for all I know... for all we know he really _is_ what he says he is but...” Julian trails off.

“But we’ve already come this far now, haven’t we? And you already told me there’s no way he could be a tailor. Don’t go doubting yourself, mate. Odo confirmed it, there’s no such man as Elim Garak. An’ that Marritza fellow’s alive and well.”

“But that still leaves the bounty, doesn’t it?” Julian finds himself thinking aloud, grasping at the piece of the puzzle he knows he has to be missing. “Someone set a bounty on him, him as Marritza not him as Garak and only someone who knew he was going to be _here_ , who knew that Leeta would be one of the few people in the entire universe who could find him even disguised, then that...” Julian trails off, his eyes wide. “It’s him! He had to have set it on himself! It fits perfectly! Who sets up such an elaborate ruse to murder themselves but what if that’s his game? What if we’re playing right into it?”

“Julian, mate.” Miles looks almost pained. “Back it up, Mr. Data, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” Julian shakes his head furiously, sitting forward, nearly folded over as he tries to swallow and catch his breath.

“Right, sorry.” Julian removes his spectacles, fogged over faintly with moisture. He wipes them off, hand faintly trembling. “Lets assume that Leeta is correct then. Mr. Garak is a member of the Obsidian Order. tasked with God only knows what. We can sort that out later when we have more time. Or if he’s not if he’s... “ Julian takes another deep breath. “He’s one of _them_... and he’s here for me... and why would he take the book if he wasn’t... But regardless he needs to operate without drawing attention to himself but that’s impossible. There are no Cardassians in Indigo on permanent business, he has no connections to anyone here, and he has to know whatever ruse he comes up with will be uncovered soon enough as small a town as this is. But what if he can create a connection to someone here? What if he can convince everyone he is someone that he’s not even while wearing a different face. Enter Leeta. Enter Marritza. He puts a bounty on Aamin Marritza and makes sure everything points to him being Marritza even engineering a very real threat to his own life. And here you have it. Everyone believes he’s Marritza even as they call him Garak to his face and _even_ as he denies every bit of it. And now he has Marritza’s former lover sheltering him and protecting while he goes on to complete his mission and we _have_ to get that book back and then find out why he’s really here and what he’s doing.”

“Well right now, he’s taking his shirt off,” Jadzia tosses out, breaking the eerie spell of the tesnse mood. Julian sits up ramrod straight, lunging, nearly yanking the periscope away from her.

“Well don’t just stand there and watch him undress!”

“Careful with that!” Julian lets go almost immediately at the scolding by Miles.

“At least give the man some privacy to change,” Julian hisses, flustered suddenly. She takes the view back unperturbed.

“If he’s a dangerous Cardassian spy, we need to have constant vigilance, right?” Jadzia’s tone hardly speaks of vigilance and the appreciative hum that follows only reinforces her true motives for continuing to watch. “Are you sure you don’t want to look, Julian? You ought to know what you’re in for, after all.”

“Absolutely not! And for one I cannot believe you’re being so dismissive of this. Were you not listening to a word I said? You’ve only sat with the man a few times, you cannot _possibly_ believe that he’s just some tailor wandered down from Cardassia Prime to hock a few garters and slips. There was a way he looked at me, Jadzia. Not once but twice. More than that I think. And the way he reacted when I startled him. I’m telling you he’s no ordinary man.”

“Oh no he’s not,” Jadzia agrees all too eagerly with a nod of her head against the lens and he nearly yanks the view back again.

“You sure he wasn’t looking at you for another reason, Julie?” Miles stands and pokes him in the side joining in the teasing. Julian fixes a glare at him in response batting that hand away. “Don’t tell me a fella as vain as you didn’t even consider he might be sweet on you.”

“Don’t call me that,” Julian answers sourly taking a step back and nearly tripping on a sack of some overly starchy Bajoran root vegetables.. “You know, taking care of yourself shouldn’t be synonymous with vanity and don’t think I haven’t seen you jogging laps around the town perimeter the last few months.”

“Can’t a man take a little stroll without everyone in town gabbing about it?”

“There’s definitely something to be said for a man who keeps himself in shape,” Jadzia agrees and moves over just as Julian practically shoves her aside.

“God, fine you win! I’ll...” Julian trails off seeing Garak still seated at the desk, a study of concentration, but most of all fully clothed. He crosses his arms with a huff.

“Find what you were looking for Julian?” She smiles at him sweetly but then looks just as serious as he was a moment ago. “I don’t want you to be right, you know. But you _could_ be right. And I don’t think he’s been asking after you because he wants a date.” Jadzia crosses her arms looking down at the ground quietly. Miles as well is silent and Julian leans back against the wall not caring that dirt y crumbles into his hair. He shuts his eyes frowning deeply.

“God I’m getting to damn old for this.”

“Yer two years younger than me, Julie I don’t wanna hear that from you. Damn, how late is it? Think I was supposed to be home already.”

“I’ll be sure and tell Keiko that you and I weren’t up to anything untoward,” Julian assures him. Miles snorts.

“Think at this point she might send me off in my Sunday best. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, what’s the plan then?”

“Plan?” Julian laughs. “Yes, right, plan... Don’t get killed? How’s that for a plan?” He laughs softly, bitterly. “All these years thinking they’ll never-”

“ _I’ve_ got a plan.” Even in the darkness Jadzia’s smile is almost scary as she turns from one man to the other. “I know exactly how we’re going to get into Mister Garak’s room. And I know exactly how you’re going to get the book.” She puts an arm around Julian as he steps forward to hear, her eyes dancing wickedly before whispering softly, quickly in his ear. And he listens, eyes focused on Miles who stares back, expression starting to mirror his own, the unspoken connection between them conveying far more what words cannot. Julian listens, the pit of his stomach coiling in a way he can’t quite understand as she speaks to him for what seems a thousand years before pulling back triumphantly, an eyebrow raised seeming to await his approval. It takes him a moment to find his voice and when he does the fist words out of his mouth are,

“Absolutely not!”

“I wasn’t _asking_ you, Julian. I’m _telling_ you. We’re doing this. And before you start telling me how crazy I am or how worried you are if this goes wrong maybe I should remind you that I can take care of myself.” She shakes the long sleeve of the jacket she’s wearing this evening, the tip of a blade peering out dangerously. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to kill someone, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming to another semi Choose Your Own Adventure moment also! So, drop me a line, should Garak figure out what Julian & Co are plotting or be completely in the dark?


	8. The Guns of Fort Petticoat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak is invited to a special "after hours" lesson with Jadzia over dinner and wonders what the new game is... along with the rest of the players.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Garak and not gonna lie we're coming to some Garak/Jadzia. This part sticks to conversation but next part red flags ahoy. Also decided on Garak's level of awareness because hey, he is a master spy after all but that doesn't mean he can't have fun when it comes to the Scooby Gang. It also doesn't mean that everything will come right away. Probably somewhat close to it though where the amateurs are concerned. Mild language here and thanks to tinsnip for settling the question of whether or not Garak is considered "attractive" by Cardassian standards. Kinda racked my brain on that one. Anyway thank you to everyone reading, I hope you're enjoying the twists and insanity. C&C is always welcome!

_Elim, this woman is attempting to seduce you._ He does not allow that thought lightly; Garak is quite mindful of the fact that even amongst his own people he might be found the more favorable end of unremarkable. That is not to say, however, that he finds it inconceivable that a beautiful woman of any race would “put it all out there”, as the saying goes and he’s progressed quite well with his mastery of Federation idioms if he does say so himself, with the intent of sharing his bed. Quite the opposite, in fact. Garak has long grown accustomed to all sorts of women and men radiating sex and subterfuge in equal measure approaching him for a myriad of different reasons and varying levels of threat. The only true question comes when he is left to consider if the price is worth the pleasure- sadly more often than not it isn’t- or in this rather intriguing case the question what the actual motive even is. So far it’s rather neatly eluded him.

Not entirely, of course. Garak is all too painfully aware of her poorly hidden connection to Dr. Bashir just as he is equally aware of that same man’s presence here tonight. He cannot see him well. Jadzia made a careful selection with their seats- in his line of sight but not allowing Garak to face him directly. Fortunately for him, it was a perfectly natural inclination to turn one’s head upon the door swinging open, bells tingling to announce the arrival of a new patron, and his entrance far too closely followed theirs for Garak to believe it not deliberate. Dr. Bashir after all, had made himself deliberately scarce since their ill fated dinner. Garak had almost begun to believe that he had stopped coming by for dinner at all. Upon asking if he’d given some offense to drive the man away, however, Leeta assured him that he’s kept his routine Thursday meal at his usual table. She claimed not to find it strange that he was never present at the same time as Garak. _“Nothing but a coincidence, Aanya, really you’re so paranoid anymore.”_ And _that_ roused his suspicions as well, but this time to Leeta rather than the doctor. After all, she is the only one who knows his schedule so closely to be able to inform another of his dining times.

Another strike against her is that he hasn’t seen her tonight either. Or rather he hasn’t seen her since Mr. O’Brien came rushing in a huff to pull her clandestinely to the back. That was a good ten minutes ago by the time on the large grandfather clock. Garak has a feeling that he won’t be seeing her again; her place has been absconded by a dark haired Bajoran woman he’s seen lend a hand in the past. _Mardah, that’s her name._ _So it would seem that Leeta has been made off with for the time being._ _Curious. A rather curious trio indeed. Well, trouble comes in threes, that’s the old Federation saying, isn’t it? Or is it fours, because there is nothing the two of them could possibly converse about for such a period of time at this exact moment now, is there? Consider it in another moment, Elim, you’d hardly want to disappoint your lovely dining companion now, would you?_

Tonight Jadzia is quite lovely indeed. She’s let her hair down this evening- a fitting colloquialism. When she first offered a special “after dark” class to tutor him in some of the more salacious points of Federation Standard she told him she’d feel a lot more comfortable in a different setting. Different being Rom’s rather than Quark’s or any of the other few spots open for dinner. But even the dining room itself seems to have taken on a different cast than its normal familiarity that doesn’t just begin and end with Leeta’s uncharacteristic absence. The room seems darker somehow or perhaps that may be because she’s so pale. He sees starlight- if he’s being poetic- woven through her hair manifested in the form of thin strands of shimmering gold ribbons almost hair thin creating a dazzling effect. The dress is blue, not quite royal, but a bright, stunning shade, neckline plunging, scandalous on Cardassia, standard here. He’s sure he’s seen more licentious garb on the dabo girls at Quark’s but perhaps that’s not an entirely appropriate comparison. The trim is white- feathers from some poor balding crane no doubt that corset around her waist to the short skirts ruffles upon ruffles.

He sees ruffles woven together like a blooming spray of white and blue peonies short enough to show terribly long legs in black fishnets. He has not as of yet ascertained the point of the frilly white length draped around her shoulders- a boa she’d explained before wrapping it around the back of the chair to eat- and the photographs he’d glimpsed offered little context other than yet another extraneous fashion accessory. He’s noticed the inhabitants of this planet and even the visitors have embraced the bizarre fashion gaudy excesses of this culture. There is a staggering amount of impracticality to many of the accessories and trends but he recognizes the wisdom of his cover in that. The opportunity for profit, as a Ferengi would say is quite high for the successful clothier.

But profit is hardly at the forefront of his thoughts as she enthusiastically, almost childishly, slurps a tube grub between her blue painted lips. It, like most of the other delicacies has an odd Federation twist, in this case slathered in something red and sticky known as Barbed Q sauce. He isn’t sure where the barb comes in to play but he politely demurs the wriggling dark red mass as she shrugs her shoulders and tells him to suit himself.

“Now this,” she informs him, dabbing at her face with a damp cloth, “Is the perfect opportunity to discuss tonight’s lesson.” There’s a particular sparkle to her eyes as she says that, remnant of her expression when she first proposed tonight’s evening in the first place. More specifically, when she offhandedly informed him that the main dispensary of sundries- incidentally also owned by Quark- kept a regular stock of Inhibitor C.

_Oh yes, the dear Inhibitor. The magic little pill which no respectable Cardassian family man would be caught dead with and no bold young freighter captain would be without. Cheap, effective, Federation gold, C-type almost impossible to come by in Cardassian space by any legitimate means oh but there is always a friend of a friend, isn’t there?_ C type simply adapted to Cardassian biology where most mammalian humanoids found the most efficacy with A or B. He’s recalls the warning tale of a desperate and equally lecherous camp guard during the Occupation stupidly letting a wily female prisoner pass him a triple dose of B with beautiful assurances the extra would compensate for the loss in efficacy. _A cautionary tale in more ways than one, for the man lust blind enough to take anything from a willing Bajoran whore, and for the layman uneducated enough to think the differences in types were so simple._ The fool had been left unable to evert himself without excruciating pain the moral goes and Garak had never met anyone stupid enough to have actually tested that particular mythos.

And it was that risk for the unlearned consumer that left most doctors hand wringing and finger wagging about certain medicines being too readily available and why should such a thing even be necessary in this day and age with the simple injections. Aside from those few without access to medical personnel or other personal reasons…Garak recalls that conversation taking a sip of perfectly warmed Sem’hal stew. _Yes, a curious thing to mention that rather than the standard doctor administered injection that to the best of my knowledge certainly should still be readily available even here. So you’re trying to keep me away from him with your clever conversation diversions and now perhaps even this. One might be inclined to think it borne out of jealously but that anxious look on the doctor’s face hardly spoke of some torrid love triangle. No, there is a reason, there is certainly a subterfuge no matter how your ego may wish it otherwise, Elim._ But as to whether or not indulging that base inclination to see such a seductive diversion through is worth the risk, he’s yet to ascertain.

“Ah so there _is_ a lesson,” he remarks lightly. “And here I’d thought this a nothing master ploy to wrangle a free dinner out of me.” _But what’s life without peril, after all. There is the appropriate wariness and then there is the caution of an old man with far too much to lose and while you might be one you certainly cannot make claim to the other._ He made sure to take her advice even allowing an extra few days for everything to “clear out” just in case.

“Well if you’re paying, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the idiom goes.” She takes a long drink of the fizzy dark ale- root beer she informed him while offering him a drink of the overly fizzy cloying beverage. “Is the bread not to your liking?” He looks down at the hearty hard crusted rolls on the plate next to the stew. Mardah had suggested the accompaniment to the main course, leaving him slightly mystified as to why anyone would ruin a perfectly fine bread by using it as a glorified sponge to sop soup.

His eyes vacillate briefly between bread and stew determining at last that should this sour the meal he’ll be left with far more opportunities in the future to enjoy the dish on its own. The pragmatic part of him points out that should he perish tonight at the hands of this delightfully wicked woman then he’ll be going to hell with a sour belly and his last memory of food forever tainted by some asinine Bajoran culinary obscenity. _Oh really, you’re being far too dramatic, Elim._ He smiles, breaks a piece of bread and dips just the tip letting it collect a small bit of the thick broth.

“When in Rome, right?” He raises the roll in toast before carefully tasting, finding that the texture of the crust, the yeast of the bread is a strangely appropriate complement. He imagines there must be at the very least a faint look of surprise on his face since Jadzia continues to watch him with a slightly unreadable expression. He’s begun to realize that her open face, the friendly and coy demeanor are a perfect distraction for whatever emotion she might be feeling beneath the surface. He rather likes that about her.

“And now are you going to be brave enough to try a bite of my dinner?” She holds up a large tube grub slathered generously in that viscous sauce, the worm giving a piteous undulation as his eyes fall on it. He shakes his head.

“You know, I have a sneaking suspicion the purity of the flavor would be severely compromised by what I’ve already eaten this evening. I’ll have to take a…” he fishes for the right expression. “Rain check, I believe.” He watches her shrug her shoulders, once more slurping the grub between her lips with an exaggerated lustiness that would border on obscene if her zest appeared anything other than genuine. Nonetheless, he finds the sight strangely arousing as her finger swipes sauce from her cheek, quickly sucking it off.

“I’m so glad you said that!” she exclaims with a slight bounce in her seat, giving one final swipe to her thumb with her tongue. “You’ve given me the perfect opening for our lesson this evening.” Garak continues to eat, listening politely as she explains with as much gusto as she eats, the ancient human practice of “flyting”. He is somewhat impressed to find that humans have made belittling one another into a much vaunted art form but given their penchant for diplomacy and the loquacious character of a fair number of their kind it does make a sort of logical sense.

“And so you see,” she continues with animated hand movement, “We come circle from Unferth’s long boisterous challenge to Beowulf ending ‘gif þu Grendles dearst nihtlongne fyrst nean bidan’ to the incredibly complex word plays and allusions you see in today’s modern performances. Now where traditionally those involved would have some foreknowledge of their opponent’s history, exploits, and other characteristics, today that’s not always the case. Of course with all the information that we have available at our fingertips- well off world anyway- you almost never find yourself without an opportunity to prepare notes and ideas in advance but there are still occasions where it becomes necessary to immediately act based only on a moment’s observation. May I give you an example?” She looks so eager when her eyes meet his that it makes him pause in his own eating, dinner only half eaten.

“Do go on,” Garak encourages her th i nking that he’s beginning to see exactly what her tact is.

“Just tell me if I go to far.” Jadzia clears her throat, leaning in slightly, subtly. “I shouldn’t be surprised that a Cardassian would refuse a taste of my dinner since this is a meal fit only for a true warrior.” She looks about to sit back and Garak is pleased to find that while the dish in fact looks revolting the only true aroma she breathes out is that strong likely spicy sauce.

It is then he realizes, as he’d suspected to begin with that she’s in fact just insulted his manhood.

“Do I need to explain that one to you? There were a few different levels after all that you might not have caught.” And a second- he doesn’t doubt the statement even the slightest bit pedantic, her tone is hardly fitting such a motive. She lets a small smile, a small tease slip after that waspish question not question. Garak is beginning to realize that most everything is a game to this woman and he rather likes that. Gul help me I’ll regret this if I end up in the morning with my throat slit but such temptation. Such wicked temptation and I’m not half pious enough to turn it away a second time. And really, what faster way to uncover this little subterfuge than to go willingly along with it? Oh rationalize to all the Legates in Central Command, Elim, but at least have the decency to be honest with yourself. Mmm no. There’s no fun in that now. He cannot help but smile, knowing that in rituals such as these, at least back home, there’s usually some sexually infused gravity which speaks against such breaches in protocol but well... Garak usually is his nastiest behind that grin.

“No, my dear, I understand perfectly well. But I do believe your measure of man is terribly one sided if your only criteria in a partner is a love of raw insects.” he sighs and shakes his head seeing her take a long drink. “Then again I cannot fault you for having only kept company with a decrepit band of Klingons for the formative years of your long past maidenhood.”

Jadzia sets the cup down slowly, eyes narrowing at him as if she hadn’t expected him to draw out that bit of information she’d yet to offer. He feels a warmth spreading, the kanar or perhaps that growing flush of desire. Really, the two are likely to mingle to the same if she keeps making such delightfully nasty faces at him. He hopes he does not have long to await her rejoinder- it would be terribly disappointing if she were not as up to the task as he. But she does not let him down, her own dinner half eaten, half forgotten, hand still around that glass as she leans in once more.

“I cannot imagine what you would know of that sort of company, Garak. I’ve heard that those in The Order are neutered to ensure that there is no outside interference with their work.” She says it so calmly, so simply, that he nearly catches him of guard and he can feel the extraneous blink of his eyes, twice, three times as he collects himself, seeing that wicked little smile again hearing that challenge rapped out as she takes another long drink. He almost opens his mouth, that practiced action to placidly refute the claim, declare he is of course only plain, simple, Garak, tailor, gardener, trader, whatever skin he must wear for the sake of the mission except he realizes, that bald refusal seems as if it would be out of the spirit of this little game and far worse, do nothing but show that his wit has left him.

Perish the thought. And how did you think to throw that out? Who here has been tossing about such wild unfounded speculations? Doctor Bashir? Leeta? Kira? Surely no one else would guess such a thing and most natives wouldn’t know the Obsidian Order from a ham sandwich.

“Cat got your tongue, Garak?” she teases him with poisonous sweetness that is beautifully infuriating and draws his attention once more back to her.

“You have my apologies, my dear Jadzia,” he answers with his own saccharine patronizing. “It’s just so surprising to see one of the lesser species with any knowledge of the order it’s almost akin to a riding hound learning how to tap out numbers on the dirt, fascinating in its own quaint primitive way but in the end just an animal’s trick.” He shrugs his shoulders, seeing a slight widening of her eyes almost thinking he may have misread and taken this too far, but there is a slight blush beginning, a pinkening of her face that speaks to something far different. She smiles coyly, and slides her chair closer to his, dropping her voice nearly inaudible, her breath a delicate kiss to his ear.

“It’s been said Cardassians are quick with their tongues, but I haven’t met one yet whose mouth has been good for anything but talking, Garak. And where the mouth has failed spectacularly the hands do not even achieve that much. But then, I have it on good authority that you are a master of sleight of hand and perhaps a thief might succeed where honest men have faltered.” And amidst the myriad of aromas in the room he cannot be sure that he can in fact attest a hundred percent if that faint smell he catches is truly her arousal or his own imagining but her words don’t leave much to question. He watches her sit back slowly, enough to take another drink, certain a lesser man- certain Dukat in fact- might be part way to shaming himself partly everted, an obvious show to impress, but he’s always had far better control that that. He watches the bob of her throat with those sips, watches those painted blue lips, how her teeth bite the edge of the glass just the tiniest bit in a childish habit that should be terribly ridiculous on a woman her age but her-

Her finger. It comes to him to stupidly and suddenly as she takes that drink that he nearly bites his own tongue as he sees what he’s been missing. It moves. Or rather there’s a gentle tap of her index finger and there has been each time she’s raised the glass. No, not just a tap. It’s a very deliberate motion- it’s an entire series of alternate fast and lingering motions- and he can only partially bring to mind what the sequence might have been the other times but he is completely certain now that it is morse code. “ gng... in... b... rdy...” more of that truncated vowel code but simple enough. She’s making the move.  Jadzia, of course, had not taught him that particular lesson. It’s the result of his own self study. And as he maintains perfect focus on her, he lets his actual mental attention fixate on the background, on one Dr. Bashir still seated, staring intensely at that finger, another notebook peeking out from the edge of the table. Clever. Garak cannot help but allow his admiration for their little game to overtake his self flagellation at his own carelessness. Yes, letting that eagerness, that anticipation for the next move take over is what makes him take another drink of that sweet liquid, that lovely inhibitor of another sort as he determines he is absolutely going to allow this evening to play out to its fullest potential.

_You’re going for the book. You and the doctor, or perhaps just you but that’s what your game is tonight. This charade, my disappearing Bajoran shadow, his presence back at his table, all of it. Oh my dear mistrustful doctor, I’m wounded that you didn’t believe me when I told you I hadn’t seen it. Wounded but thankful that you aren’t quite as naive as I’d taken you for and with this little set up tonight, I can see you’re far more devious as well. But never let it be said that Elim Garak is one to disappoint an attentive audience. I hope you keep watching, Doctor Bashir. I’ll make sure you enjoy every moment of it._ Garak clears his throat, that smile pasted on his face taking on just a slightly darker cast as he allows some of that excitement to bleed through. After all, he has clearly deduced that it is not his life that is in peril tonight oh no no no, not _his_ life at all. He takes her hand, closing over her soft skin stuck to the glass, making sure his head is turned so that Doctor Bashir can see him as well. He catches a pause, a brow furrow of concern out of the corner of his eye and he doesn’t doubt for a second now the man can read lips.

“A thief is it?” Garak laughs softly playing it up just a bit. “My dear Jadzia, you don’t know the half of it.” She meets that smile, and book or no he has a feeling there’s no bluff to those words.

“Then why don’t you show me, Mister Garak?”

“Not ‘mister,’” he corrects, his turn to lean in and breath kiss her neck. “Just plain, simple, Garak.”


	9. One Foot in Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game between Garak and Jadzia continues with the stakes getting higher and fair play goes out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just made it under the wire. Been a busy week. What's sad is this chapter and the next was supposed to be one chapter but that was so not happening. Definite Garak/Jadzia abc action here and the necessary buildup for next chapter's er... climax but still nothing graphic. I'm actually really psyched to get to Jadzia's backstory in this story though it's quite a long ways away yet. Thank to everyone reading, C&C always welcome!

Garak is beginning to wonder if Doctor Bashir’s true intention really isn’t to kill him. He isn’t sure himself how he and Jadzia even made it up the narrow staircase- with a rather lengthy stop on the landing, much to the dismay of a couple of humans who had to resort to some rather intimate contortions to shoulder past them- and he nearly tripped over that last step. Jadzia hardly gives him time to regain his footing before she is on him again. She’d left the long white boa downstairs whether with the belief that it will somehow find its way back to her, or out of a complete lack of regard in her haste to get him upstairs and unclothed, he cannot even say at this point, though he surely suspects the latter. He suspects as much as his focus will allow him to, that is. He finds himself with his back to the wall after another quick reversal of their positions that nearly spins him a hundred eighty degrees, and the oddly passive position leaves him just a touch out of sorts.

He had imagined, of course as far as he ever dared such lascivious imaginings, that she would hardly be a reserved lover. What he had not accounted for even in those scant musings just how aggressive she would actually be. To be fair, he _did_ answer in the affirmative when she had her mouth fastened beautifully to the sensitive ridge along his neck and she asked him whether or not he thought he was up to the encounter. To be _more_ fair, however, he had not quite realized everything that would entail. And what it entails at exactly this moment is an impressively firm grip to his hair, head forced back, the initial tug making him hit the wall with a hiss that had only made her half coo orgasmically against his skin with the other playing under his shirt, just enough pressure kneading his side not to tickle. Garak has never before bedded a Klingon of either gender though he imagines that if the experience is not entirely identical to this it’s likely damn close.

The skin of her hands is soft, but not unworked. He can feel the light callouses where she’s clearly gripped a weapon many times in the past if not the present. His own hands have not been idle though it had taken him at least enough time to try and determine exactly how forward to be given the circumstances. While there might not be any witnesses at present- and he _has_ kept his eyes darting back to the stairwell for any sign of the doctor’s shadow or rather elusive presence- he is well aware that it is not his place to dictate her level of bodily exposure. And thus his hands move, purposefully, quickly beneath the many ruffles of her skirts, feeling the hilt of a dagger brush his forearm as his hands squeeze that infinitely squeezable round of her ass. He feels her shift, feels her grind against him harder and he sighs, eyes flickering down the hall counting still a good ten feet to his own door as he wonders how this possibly plays into the scheme if they don’t even make it to the room.

Not that Garak particularly _minds_ that per se but he doesn’t feel it beneficial to his standing in such a small town to be known as the Cardassian exhibitionist pervert. Garak gasps, that thought nipped down as her teeth nip the sensitive nerves of that tender ridge running along the underside of his ear, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head as she lifts a leg, knee hitting the wall beside him with a loud thud.

“Why don’t we play a game, Garak?” she teases him with a hard suckle, that raised leg just begging him to run a hand over that smooth skin. He obliges with a draw of his own nails that makes her hands clench unconsciously. He can feel her shiver deliciously against him and wonders if it as to do with the lovely Trill markings or if its just of his own merit.

“I’m afraid you’ll find me a poor winner,” he says with a slight snap of the elastic garter belt against her skin. Jadzia laughs softly.

“Cardassians are always so sure of themselves,” she answers with a tun of her hips that is so terribly tempting. “But are you confident enough to play the game before knowing the rules?”

She feels nice pressed against him- warm, willing, strong enough that he doesn’t feel the need to hold anything back. _A deadly combination but if the stakes of her game are that book then of course there would be no particular need for haste, for any other subterfuge other than a pleasant evening. A pity we’re not yet inside. It would be so much easier to play this game._ Her insistent rocking gives him some clue as to the terms of her game; he’s quite aware that certain races have a fixation with thoughtless frottage. It’s not an indulgence Garak has ever allowed unless absolutely necessary and he has a feeling it would be best to keep his faculties at their peak. Especially when she does _that,_ her fingers having danced their way down to the back of his neck a maddening light touch sharply contrasting her sharp scrape of teeth not quite touching the ridges of his collarbone.

“Confident... but not... foolish my dear you... ah...seem to have me at ahhhh... disadvantage.” A disgustingly truthful statement overplayed so as to at least give a false sense to his very real excitement at her mouth. He can feel her smile, feel her other hand slink behind his back to the wall until she gives his own ass a meaningful squeeze drawing them even closer against one another.

“I bet I can make you evert yourself,” she promises her lips tracing up his throat to nip at his jaw. “Every last inch.” Jadzia punctuates that declaration with a fervent lick to his parted lips and he does feel so inclined to reward such audacity that he lets his tongue kiss hers back with an answering flicker, a soft sensual twining, feeling her grip on him loosen just enough to shift his weight. With a careful pivot following, he practically throws her back against the wall still holding her thigh hard enough to bruise. He hears the clatter of a heel, a shoe half being kicked and hears another loud thud as the other shoe drops. Garak notes that she’s still just as tall as he even without them. Her answering moan prompts him to keep that pressure as she bares her throat rather prettily. Garak seizes that, tongue dancing lightly, softly, thankful that it’s his right hand that’s free as he uses it to slam her wrist to the wood paneling soundly, holding it there tightly.

“Oh many have tried, my dear,” he kisses up her neck, teeth catching just the tip of her earlobe beneath a small silver stud that seems oddly staid for the rest of her outfit. “But I assure you that the one shaming themselves first tonight shall certainly not be me.”

“Mmm...” he feels the tension in her wrist, feels her fingers curl as if her nails are biting into her own palm as she moans. He feels the arch of her body, feels her chest press back to his, and Garak takes that as his invitation to be that much less a gentleman. He ducks his head, sure that he knows exactly her game, thrilled that she has such confidence in her abilities as to win the book in such a way. Not that he’ll let her of course but he welcome the challenge and hides a grin with a hard mouth to the very top of where her soft breast is raised up in that tight revealing dress, giving a secondary test to the sensitivity of those spots. “Care to make a wager?” she asks voice shaky, possibly a put on but he allows it.

“And what might that be?” he murmurs with perfectly feigned curiosity that he’s sure she doesn’t buy. That deep husky laugh says it all as he feels her fingers once more at the nape of his neck like a dog or a Klingon- not much difference as far as he’s concerned. He turns his head, eyes up towards hers and he can definitely see the gears in her head turning fiercely, so loud he can practically hear them. And he hears her voice recover almost miraculously, steady, calm, a Ferengi in the midst of a hard bargain.

“You have something I want, Garak,” she says archly which could just as easily be a dirty double entendre as her thumb strokes that ridge at the back of his neck. “And I know I have something you want too.” She pauses, licks her lips, and just dares him to say it.

Garak merely raises a brow ridge with a slightly heavy lidded hard suck leaving a small pink mark on her skin playing prettily with all the rest.

“You’ll have to speak up, my dear, I’m afraid my kind doesn’t hear all that well.” _And now how shall you play the game here? Do you tell me what you want? Do you dare to reveal what it is that you’re after?_ _Or will you-_ that thought is cut short as he feels her turn that hand to a sharp pressure point between neck and shoulder and while that would normally make him tighten his grip out of reflex she follows with a push to his head that nearly knocks it into his own arm before he lets it drop. Jadzia quickly moves, using his momentum, palm to his shoulder, forcing that turn that nearly off balances him. Her strength is far greater not hindered by the heels, far more of her weight thrown into him as he drops her leg, and finds her moving quickly behind him without a waste of movement. There is a moment when instinct borne out of surprise wars with a careful consciousness of the situation. He hesitates, not daring to show too much of his fighting ability when the encounter has yet to turn murderous ,and it is that hesitation which causes him to be shoved forward hard. He catches himself on his own door, finding her flush to his back before he can turn around.

Garak cannot help the initial moment of tension, once more indecision staying his hand. He’s pleasantly surprised not to find that d’k tahg to his throat or between his ribs. Instead it is only her hands and he sees a missed opportunity for a wrist lock as well. _Ah, no murderous intent as of yet then. Really, Elim, you’d almost deserve it for how carried away with yourself you’d gotten. In all the commotion, in all this back and forth you stopped paying attention to the stairs, and the hallway might be straight, but you can’t see beyond two feet into the stairwell with the last turn to this hallway. But then again, why would there be anyone else?_ In spite of his doubt he doesn’t allow himself to dismiss that instinct even when she eases up just enough to wrap her arms around him, under his own, easily undoing the large buttons of his vest, starting to work the smaller ones of the white shirt beneath. Her mouth is back at the shell of his ear with that shiver inducing heat.

“I think you can hear me well enough now.” She undoes another button. “What you have, Garak, is a book that you borrowed. And I’d just like an opportunity to win it back.” Two more buttons join their fellow and he appreciates the consideration to his clothing.

“Surely you don’t think I would refuse to return a book you’ve loaned me.”

Her hands catch a button and she answers him just as easily as she rips the remaining buttons to be met with a slow internal sigh. He’ll have to mend that later.

“Oh I don’t doubt your sincerity, Garak,” she lies prettily, “But I think you’ve forgotten you even have it so the name wouldn’t ring a bell I’m sure.” Her hands run up his chest and he feels a hard squeeze to his pectorals that’s just enough finger digging hard pressure to feel beautiful. He allows a slow closed eyed breath as she squeezes, as she lets her hands worship his skin, kneading those muscles, her hot body pressed back to his even warm through the fabric of the vest. Her nails rake slowly, deeply and he growls.

“Cardassians don’t forget anything,” he answers automatically, obstinately calling her on the lie. She pinches a nipple hard and he hisses, head nearly banging to the door. She presses her hips into him, an intimate if functionally useless gesture. Nonetheless, he rocks back against her with a slight turn of his head starting to pant, and he almost believes then that he very well might lose.

“Then what’s in it for me... should I acquiesce to your wager?”

He hears a breathlessness in her voice that doesn’t sound feigned.

“What you want more than anything, Garak. Information.” She twists, she rocks into him again, letting her nails scrape over his stomach down, down, and he catches his foot before he steps out and spreads a leg. Information. What he wants to know. The book and questions and answers and he knows that there has to be some Gul’s damn trap but he’s so close to...

“I’d have all your secrets, my dear,” he promises feeling her mouth play his neck again tongue a soft trill as he swears her nails scrape below his navel almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Three wishes... just like a genie, Garak.” Three wishes. Three questions. _And much like the fabled human djinn you too are a creature of mischief and trickery._ He laughs softly and nods his head in agreement.

“My, such an elaborate game for one misplaced treatise on human slang, but I agree... if only because you are such an enchanting librarian.”

Garak takes a deep breath, focusing inward, letting that physical distraction fall away until he is focused on the door, the metal pocket door with the four large knobs locking it tightly shut.

“But if you would be so kind as to cover your eyes while I open the door. I shall greatly miss your tender ministrations but as some would say, these are troubled times and one can never be too careful.” Garak feels her let go and can practically _feel_ her smirk as she steps besides him so he can see her turn around, eyes covered. He is quick and precise with the memorized motions, thankful they are soundless as each is turned to its right position and the door slowly releases from its locked position. “Open sesame,” he declares somewhat dramatically before sliding the door the rest of the way seeing her laugh from behind covered eyes. “Ah but alas, he declares as he enters the darkened room to light a candle on the desk. “It would seem all the treasure has been absconded with.” Garak turns to her in mock outrage as she enters. “Surely I’ve been had by your wily treachery!”

Jadzia smirks, taking a few steps in not having bothered to retrieve her shoes. Another strike in favor of one soon to follow them.

“And do you also have an older brother, Cassim?” Garak decides to light one more candle to fully appreciate the sight, setting the match in a small jar of sand before turning back to her with a grin.

“I have an older brother,” he lies easily. “Perhaps someday I might tell you his name as well but as for right now...” Garak shrugs off the vest and neatly folds it on the chair. “Once more I seem to be at a disadvantage.” Jadzia slides the door carefully, seeming to study the mechanism for a moment, before letting it shut completely. At least it appears to have shut but he doesn’t hear the clicks and only has a moment’s debate before she is on him again. Jadzia pushes the shirt from his shoulders, placing a foot over the fabric so he can’t pick it back up.

“I never promised to play fair now, did I?” Her eyes dance, muted blue in the light matching that slightly smudged lipstick brilliantly. No, he supposes she didn’t at that.

“Neither did I.” Garak doesn’t wait to see the shock register. He imagines it perfectly as he ducks just a moment and lifts her over his shoulder just quickly enough for the short carry to the bed thankful that it’s quite low to the floor. He drops her unceremoniously but holds back, not immediately following. Not exactly anyway. Garak kneels between her legs, but not on the bed, no. He knows exactly how he’s going to win this one. He unfastens the garters quickly, easily, and when she sits up to look, he pushes her back down, the first time, surprise alone tempering her reaction time. By the second time she sits up, he knows she’ll be ready to catch his wrist but he’s already moved the greatest obstacle and as he places his hands on her knees, holding her legs apart, he can smell her scent so strongly he once again nearly gives into the silly adolescent desire to evert, to allow that full arousal to bloom, the hang heavy and aching, drawing that moment out until he can hardly stand it. It’s already uncomfortable- that constraint, that pressure responding to her heat, to the smell of her sex- and he dips his head, catches his breath so that it doesn’t overtake him. She looks down at him but not before giving a quick look over his shoulder to the door the he doesn’t miss.

“What are you-“ Garak doesn’t allow that sentence to finish, mouth already to the inside of her thigh leaving no question as to what exactly it is that he’s doing. He doesn’t yet hear any footsteps but if it is in fact Doctor Bashir who will be joining them he knows he likely won’t hear a thing regardless. _Well Elim, there’s no point in just sitting here idle now is there? You have a guest to entertain and it would be terrible manners to leave her unsatisfied with your company. After all, you_ _do_ _have a bet to win, don’t you?_ Garak smirks against her skin as he sucks hard, fingers hooking into the band of the blue dyed lace tugging gently. He looks up at her on his knees, from where he kneels between her spread legs and her expressions clearly says she hadn’t expected _this_ particular tact. He sees her lick her lips as if she’s unsure whether the pleasure is worth the risk of the loss, but that alone will confirm for him if that truly was the plan all along or just a clever diversion. Her lip worries just briefly between teeth as he tugs again needing just that small bit of cooperation to proceed. He sees her eyes almost go to the door once more before she squirms just a bit as he places another sharp bite to the inside of her thigh to help make up her mind. It’s enough, his mouth moving closer, further up and with another tug she lifts up, letting him pull that thin fabric off, her right leg bending, letting him stretch the garment over and off it. Perfect.

“I thought I told you, my dear Jadzia, that I am a _very_ cunning linguist.”


	10. Three Jumps Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get steamy as all players make their moves. Who'll come out on top? That remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This was initially going to be a double update (I know you wouldn't know if I didn't tell you but oh well) since it would've worked best to post Julian's part at the same time. That being said I'll either post that before next Sunday or make that the double. Either way Julian's POV in this scene coming soon. This part is definitely where the M rating comes in and also a warning for alien anatomy as well. It ran a tad long but it was fun to write and well sorry not sorry lol. Thanks to everyone reading, C&C always welcome.

It isn’t long before Garak catches sight of Doctor Bashir slowly insinuating himself into the room. He doesn’t sense him- he has yet to determine if that is going to be one of the three questions he asks Jadzia since she very well may not know- but rather he sees him reflected on the surface of the small mirror positioned between the tall bookcase and his bed. There are in fact a series of discreetly placed glasses for him to observe every corner of the room no matter which direction he faces. He has had a sneaking suspicion ever since the work was done in his room and a few of his papers were slightly off that he is being watched. He decided against a full sweep of the room instead choosing to temper his actions lest he give himself away. It’s always far better, after all, to control the flow of information that one’s observer receives.

The action is quick, discreet, and goes unnoticed. It also makes him acutely aware that he cannot, under any circumstances, afford to let himself be swept away by lust. His finger hooks her panties off her other leg. That glimpse was a fleeting thing caught before his position once more blocked all from his view but her. The position is the worst it could possibly be for him, he realizes, angry with himself that he so neatly, so stupidly fell into such a trap. Of course it would be a simple matter to turn, to catch Doctor Bashir red handed so to speak, but the last thing he wants to do is alert either of them to his awareness of the situation. No, that would be quite sloppy indeed. The more they underestimate him, the easier for his own movement and so he allows himself for the next few moments- counting off in his head so he does not lose track of the seconds- to simply add to the rouse.

It’s hardly a difficult feat. Her skin is soft, the heat between her thighs heating him up as well no matter how he might try to shove it off to the side. He is a professional, but he is still a creature of flesh, and blood, and a want that’s decided to remind him that it has not been indulged in an obscenely long time. Garak shifts, hearing her breath intake as his tongue lightly tickles a trail, close, closer, enough so that he can feel the soft short hair brush the side of his face as he nears the juncture of her thigh. He can feel the tension in her legs; he feels her holding back the desire to squeeze her thighs together. He feels the slight buck of her hips insistent beneath his grip and that poorly contained desire makes him suspect that she knew she’d little chance of winning. _A good bluff then but I can smell it, I can feel you’re already so close. You have such a delightfully responsive body it doesn’t lie._

Garak lets his breath ghost over the heat of her slit and hears her bite back a cry finding such a controlled action to be out of place with what he’s observed of her character so far. Garak thinks quickly, recalling the position of every glass in the room determining if there is any way he can see what the doctor is attempting. _Of course you wouldn’t want to startle him with a sound he’s not expecting now, would you?_ He breaths out again hard, hot, hearing another bitten back whimper and he feels a hand to the back of his head restrained, tense, fingers awkwardly twisting in his hair, and there’s another push of her hips up insistently followed by a soft “please… right there…” It’s spoken stilted as if around a finger, and that thought of those pretty full lips of her biting back another cry nearly makes him forget the doctor’s presence as he dips forward just those few more measured centimeters. Garak lets his tongue flit softly, teasing, feeling that grip to his scalp tighten painfully in answer as she swears under her breath some Klingon epithet he’s heard only a few times before. _And certainly not under these circumstances._

Garak smiles even as he strains to hear any sound from behind not doubting that Doctor Bashir is remaining perfectly quiet. Garak imagines his hurried rifle through the books. He does not think he could hear the sound of the drawer slide open, the metal casters still far too well maintained, even were it not for Jadzia’s heavy breaths. _Exaggerated?_ He licks again just a little harder higher, not quite hitting where she needs it most, moving slowly, letting himself get nearer knowing his tongue still dances around just near enough to be at the edges of that heightened response radius. Garak can feel her get wetter as he works, that slick salty sweet coating his tongue. He dares release one thigh, knowing her leg may give him the opening he needs to see depending on how she moves, and that quick draw up, heel pressed to the bed splayed open wider almost allows him to see with a subtle turn of his head, a fast dart of his eyes, that mirror reflecting Doctor Bashir’s every move dead center except…

Except there is no movement that he observes. Doctor Bashir appears perfectly still. But he’s not bent over the desk. He’s not sifting through drawers, or trying to pick the lock of the chest that Garak had purchased to store some of his more sensitive documents. He’s watching them. Garak recalls perfectly even with that all too quick look that position, carefully out of the angle to cast a shadow on the wall that might betray his presence. But it’s that deliberate choice of spot that places him best within the view of the glass, of course only one clever enough to stand where the light won’t betray his presence would be worth observing after all. And Doctor Bashir most certainly is that. That all too brief observation showed such an intensity to that still stare from across the room. He held nothing in his hand, his hand in fact stopped, fingers resting at the hollow of his throat, the tension palpable and Garak could imagine then a slow swallow, a shaking breath, and that thought comes to him before he can call it back; the thought that he may be watching them with some perverse voyeuristic pleasure.

_But then who is it that he watches?_ There would be an equal appeal in either or even both depending on the man and Garak has had so precious little contact to make that determination without error. Precious little with the doctor but precious lots with Jadzia. _Mmm… precious indeed._ Garak has never found any particular dignity, any particular finesse or audial music to the squelching sticky sex sounds, but there is, he must admit, a guttural appeal in each suck to her wet soft folds followed by a successively louder gasp, a kneading of his scalp, his neck, Jadzia applying just a little more insistent force until his lips meet that small swollen nub. He starts soft, slow, hearing a bitten back scream that turns to a full blown near panicked mantra of his name when he lets his tongue press harder, when he lets just the barest graze with his teeth before slowly drawing in, beautiful moan drawn out longer, and he can swear he feels a slight tremor to the floor beneath him, a drop behind him that causes her to sit bolt upright and barely avoid looking directly behind him.

She doesn’t quite slip that far instead looking down at him with that bite of her lip that belongs on a much younger woman but appears even so completely captivating. 

“Garak…” she breathes out his name- he hasn’t had the luxury of his own name in enough years that to hear it spoken now in such a sex infused sound makes him nearly giddy- and he lifts his head meeting her expression levelly, sure not to display any disadvantage. Her toes, covered in that woven black fishnet playfully touch his shoulder as she lets go of him sitting back on her hands, only letting a brief slip of her eyes over his shoulder. _Not bad for an amateur. It might almost be missed by anyone else._

“That is my name,” he agrees cheekily, letting his fingers lightly stroke her, satisfied when her brows knit together with just that little wrinkle as she swallows hard. That foot pushes at him playfully for the remark and there’s another soft guttural Klingon invective which follows. 

“I can’t… I can’t wait any more.” He sees her reach behind, the sound of a zipper clicking down quickly a long trail to where he imagines it ends right at the small of her back. He briefly considers the easier method of removal when she neatly solves the problem by pulling that mass of ruffles over her head. She looks about to toss it over and behind him- he sees a faint jerk of her hand back before she throws it to the foot of the bed. He takes a moment to lament the mistreatment of the fabric but supposes it could very well be pre treated so as not to wrinkle. He certainly hopes so in- _Oh by the State, you impotent old fool you will absolutely_ _not_ _, I refuse to allow you such a banal consideration now of all times._

Garak blinks. That brief self-recrimination makes him all too aware that the woman looking down at him now is naked save for the garter belt and stockings. He rather likes the stockings. They’re well made. That’s the last clothing related thought he allows himself. Ever, he vows. Garak takes in with a mostly steady breath- that upward angle that makes her breasts full, heavy, both bearing a trail of spots down either side, loom larger in his vision- and he allows a long appreciative stare and an absent lick of his lips considering that Doctor Bashir may just find himself with all the time in the world to search for that book. _You won’t find it either. Welcome to my world, Doctor, a beautiful world of lies, misdirection, and most of all obfuscation blacker than Enabran Tain’s dark little pit of a heart. But you may look. You may look to your own heart’s content before slinking out striking thief that you are._

And he is striking; quite painfully so, really. Jadzia’s shift once more lets him glimpse the mirror sidelong as he pretends to ponder yet another breathless entreaty, rising up as if he might in fact acquiesce. That look gives him a far more clear picture and he sees Doctor Bashir on his knees, halfway to a soft silent crawl to the chest. But where he should see the doctor’s backside from a frantic fiddling with the lock instead he sees him staring hard, those full lips parted, panting, a notebook that he likely thinks his clutched hard to his chest. Garak might be disappointed in his inability to recognize a fake when the book in question is his own but when he considers the reason, he supposes he must make an allowance for an amateur where certain distractions are concerned. He sees long fingers again fidgeting with the open collar of his shirt and he sees those hazel eyes wide, almost glassy eyed in their stare though he cannot be certain of the intended recipient.

Garak quickly turns back to Jadzia, a smirk painting his face- as his classmates at the Institute would say disdainfully- at his own cleverness. He keeps that small joke to himself, letting Jadzia think what she will. 

“Oh but my dear Jadzia,” he all but purrs, voice low, sinful as he can manage as he lets his fingers dance so lightly, watching her tense once more. “I haven’t yet won our little wager.” And he sees her process that, open her mouth as if she might protest, might call the entire bet off but he does not allow her that luxury. Instead, Garak takes that instant to slide two fingers inside slow, deliberately, feeling her hot body welcoming that intrusion, her voice making the most delectable breath stopping series of soft hitching cries, the mattress bouncing lightly as she falls back to it with a soft arch of her body. He revels in that sight. _Yes, there are devices, there are toys, there are the most inventive and elaborate substitutes ever devised by the most perverse of minds but short of a holosuite there is no comparison to…_ That thought trails off as he lets his fingers press deeper giving a slight turn, a slight angle feeling her softness drawing him in, her body clenching around him, fluid seeping out over his knuckles in a lustful sluice. Jadzia’s body twists slightly, to the right and he can see her squirm, feel her push back against him, her hands clutching the sheets twisting them, her hips a steady rhythm seeking more and as her left leg twists her knee hits the side of his head carelessly and he hardly thinks he’ll even need to do much work on his own to achieve success. 

But Garak has always been industrious and never content to merely skirt by with the bare minimum. Especially when the bare maximum is bared for him in such a beautiful feast for the eyes and ears, breathless voice climbing higher the harder he pushes his fingers into her. She’s close. And unbeknownst to her so is he. Garak shifts on his knees, the pins and needles from the staunched flow of blood nowhere near the distraction he needs. That blood flow is all too content to flow furiously to other more insistent areas of his anatomy. He can feel the tightness in his groin- feel that pulse, that swell, that need to let go, to release, to ease that Gul’s damned pressure building until he thinks he may no longer have a conscious choice in the matter. He only barely resists the urge to press a hand between his legs. He knows whatever momentary respite would only multiply that need tenfold and he swallows a breath, gasping, retraining his thoughts on her, face buried back to her wetness, greedily messily lapping until he feels those motions of her hips grow more frantic.

Garak matches her pace, mouth moving in tandem with his fingers, buried knuckles deep, allowing only for a moment the thought of what comes next. The knowledge that he’s so close to that hand being his cock, his mouth on her breasts that he shuts his eyes tightly knowing that only heightens his sense of smell, touch, makes that promise all too vividly real when she screams his name again. The rawness of her voice temporarily robs him of his cognizance of the third man in the room; the loud smack of her hands to the mattress jars him back to her and her alone. And the _piece de resistance_ \- some expression subset human language somehow subsumed into Federation Standard- is that splash of fluid to his face a hot musk that he swallows messily long swipes of his tongue following the withdraw of his fingers, Jadzia’s body still trembling, shaking as he sits back on his heels.

Garak looks up at her, quite self satisfied as he laps her essence from the tips of his fingers to where it runs down the inside of his wrist.

“I believe that is my victory, my dear,” he says watching her sit up almost dazed. Her attempt at a pout is nicely undermined by the flush of her face and her messy hair.

“I thought Cardassians were lizards, not cats,” she remarks watching his mouth, her own fingers brought to her lips in a near sensual mimicry. Garak shrugs. 

“I find both animals to have their charms but-“

‘But are you so sure that you’ve won?” she questions shrewdly sitting up fully with a slight back and forth sway. Garak cannot help but feel a boost to his ego at her state of disrepair. 

And her question is a fair one. He could feel himself toward the end slipping, grasping for that careful center of control. He found it- albeit it barely- but the point stands that he is the victor and he stands, knees cracking as he straightens his legs unfolding with as much grace as he can manage. 

“I take it I’m required to provide visual proof?” His hands are already on the top button of his tan trousers as she looks up with a sparkle.

“It would only be sporting,” she agrees leaning over. “If you don’t mind,” she adds, taking over the task. He doubts she would stop even if he _did_ mind.

“Far be it for me to deny the judging panel their inquest.” She sticks her tongue out at him childishly, hands easily working the button and another of those metal zippers. 

“Well, it looks like I’ve lost a second wager,” she remarks upon seeing his undergarments.

“Dare I ask against whom?” His voice is just a bit breathless as her fingers brush the skin covering his hip bones, slowly drawing down both fitted boxers and trousers.

“Is that your first question?” She teases back revealing that true to his word he is still very much painfully concealed. Before he can answer, she leans forward and feather light presses her lips to that tight sensitive skin, bulged out, letting that trail maddeningly trace up at least half his covered length before coming to that half engages wet split, grey skin parted to pink, flushed almost dark maroon with desire. Garak draws a shaking breath, head dropped forward as he watches her, unable to hide that unsteady amused quirk of his mouth.

“You are... a wicked... woman...” he drops his hands to her shoulders almost as if to push her away. Yet there they remain even as his vision swims and she laughs softly, letting her breath heat hot nearly making him start that slow release in spite of himself.

“Can’t blame a gal for trying,” she answers with a soft laugh. And he sees her lips continue to move only a minuscule amount-they remain almost still and he can only assume she speaks primarily with motions of her tongue so as to disallow him reading her words where he cannot hear them- as he feels her speak something else before she dips forward again. Her hands hold his hips as she seals her mouth to that slit and with a slow strong, cheeks hollowed suck, draws his cock into that warm waiting pallette. Garak nearly feels his knees buckle, almost thinks that the sensation will be more than he can handle as he shuts his eyes, sense blind to sight, sound, smell, everything that isn’t her mouth engulfing every inch of him that everts. It’s almost painful- he thinks it may even cross the line at points- that hypersensitive skin being caressed sliding over her tongue, dipping, bending just slightly down her throat. Jadzia doesn’t stop either, a tilt of her head, a steady breath out until he can feel his entire length held tightly. His eyes snap open at the ceiling of the room that seems almost too bright as he pants, gasps, likely even swears before she draws her head back and he’s nearly tempted to ask where she ever learned to do _that_.

It’s distracting. It’s so Gul’s damn distracting, his head still light, his exposed cock aching so _desperately_ to couple that he nearly misses that secondary move of her lips and he knows without a doubt that she’s speaking to Doctor Bashir behind him. _And there you tip your hand, my dear. I think it’s time that we take a look at the good doctor properly and-_ And she somehow reads that intent or else this is her intention all along. Jadzia’s body shifts, her foot catching behind his just as his head starts to turn behind and he finds himself on his back, breath nearly but not quite to being knocked out of him with her straddling on top. His entire body is taut. He has to viciously tamp down the instinct to go for the knife still strapped to her thigh before she does. She doesn’t however and he realizes that just as soon as he realizes the noise was a perfect cover for any motion Doctor Bashir might have made. Garak also realizes that without being able to sense the doctor’s presence the man could be hiding in the closet for all he knows. So Garak instead looks at her, knowing her eyes will give that position better than he can deduce without sitting up and wildly turning his head like a buffoon. 

“Normally I’d return the favor but... I don’t think either of us really wants to wait, do you?” Jadzia smiles down at him looking just a touch too triumphant- a small nod of her head behind him telling him all he needs to know about what Doctor Bashir _thinks_ he has-  and he almost hates to ruin that victorious smirk. But before he can reveal that little bit of information for the both of them to hear, he catches sight of her eyes flicker briefly, still behind his head and it’s a wonder that Doctor Bashir has yet to move.

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage,” Garak remarks instead as she shifts, sliding up his body just enough that he can feel the heat of her sex meet his and it’s a damn good distraction, his cock all too happy to divert him from the larger mission at hand. She looks almost distracted for a moment, worried, until her eyes dart to the side as if watching a mouse skitter back to hiding away from the prowling feline. Her head drops low, those eyes flickering so rapidly one might think they imagined it but he knows that not to be the case. The doctor has finally made his move.

“Not just a disadvantage, Garak. you lose.” 

Jadzia moans softly, whether contrived or not it hardly matters when he feels her thighs tighten around his waist and feels the slow slip, as she tilts her hips, of the tip of his cock angling to bury deep inside her and his head tips back, breaths coming more rapid, more shallow, hands finding purchase on her hips just in time for her to roll them, allowing him to feel the action initiated by him, clearing the way where one might quickly step around shielded by noise and confusion to a hasty escape. Except of course that Garak sees him even with his eyes locked to hers. He catches the sight just into his peripheral vision in another previously inaccessible mirror as Doctor Bashir so gracefully dances to the door with a careful slide opening it. Lingering, watching, eyes boring hard, mouth half slack and Garak sees one false swipe with that diverted attention that makes him smile wide looking down at her. _It was a fun little game while it lasted, my dear children, but playtime is over._ And now it’s Garak’s turn to bring his lips to her ear, softly purring in a low deadly voice even as her foot teases his hip, her body still flush, open to him so eagerly.

“Be sure and tell the good doctor that he has the wrong book.”

She sucks in a breath that she cannot quite call back. Garak expects her to stiffen beneath him, to call an end to the encounter, any number of things but what she does next.

“Is that all I should tell Julian?” she challenges with a soft arch, that foot moving to the small of his back, urging him closer, urging him inside her. Garak’s answer is a feral grin in return as he enters her fast and hard.

“Tell our dear Julian that next time he wants to come in, he should ask me himself.” 


	11. Code of the Mounted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian finds himself in Garak's room with the chance to find his missing notebook. What he finds it far more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is what should be part of a double update except it got a bit more into plot advancement than just a supplement to the last chapter so yeah. (It's also the longest chapter to date even...) Shooting for another chapter tomorrow but it seems unlikely. Anyway, as promised Julian's POV, darling voyeur that he is and a guarantee of way more mind fuckery courtesy of our favorite spy. Keeping with the M rating here and this pretty much parallels the last chapter almost paragraph for paragraph. Thanks everyone for reading and commenting. C&C always welcome!

The door slides open easily. Miles had assured him that it would be almost soundless- it glides smoothly along the rails- and even with Julian's hearing the sound of that slide is barely audible. Miles had also assured him that the sound dampening panels should blot the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath down to near nothing. He was once again correct, and Julian feels a brief pang of guilt for doubting him.  _Of course he would never let you down. You should know by now that he would... right, none of that._  Julian takes a careful step inside, slowly sliding the door shut leaving it just before that telltale click that would draw attention. He is thankful for his steady hands. No matter how badly his heart is beating, no matter the anxiety, the fear, his body moves just as easily, just as calmly, as a machine. He almost checks his scent again but he should be as close to unperfumed as he could manage, save for whatever scents might have clung to his clothes from the downstairs. In any case, he has a feeling any olfactory tells should be well masked by Garak's current preoccupation. Julian only hopes that Garak remains suitably… distracted for him to find what he needs.

He doesn't allow himself to look for too long; he nearly misses the shirt dropped on the floor when he catches himself staring too intently. But he recovers, holding his balance, letting his foot drop back lightly with a slow breath. He sees Jadzia carefully not look at him and just as carefully hold Garak's attention. Julian cannot help the frown that crosses his face at the thought of her part in this scheme but then again… He sees her face, recognizes that excitement, that daring smirk that he knows all too well and shakes his head with a grin.  _Yes, poor pitiful Jadzia enjoying every second of this while you fuss and fret._ Of course she wouldn't have volunteered such a thing out of noble sacrifice- that is to say she would not have volunteered her body short of a life or death situation unless she thought there was a little fun to be had. That expression as she looks down and draws the dress up higher confirms that to her this is far less a mission for the sake of his life, but rather a nice excuse to spend a wild evening with a man who may or may not be a dangerous Cardassian Operative (or worse!). Julian only hopes she doesn't overestimate her own abilities.

The sounds are distracting, however. Julian cannot help, especially with  _his_  hearing, hear every labored breath, hear Garak's heavy breathing even as he… Julian swallows hard as he crosses the large room careful not to let the light cast any unwanted shadows. He cannot afford to let himself become too distracted by the act, no matter how it might be rousing his… curiosity. Julian sees a stack of papers, a small stack of books on the large desk, and he is amazed at how much Garak has acquired in-  _God, it's been a few months now, hasn't it?_ He hadn't realized so much time had passed as he approaches carefully, eyes scanning the neatly organized desk.  _No matter what Jadzia said you have to allow for the possibility that he's deciphered it. That he knows everything that you know about him and if he_ _is_ _one of them then he has to know that you're the one he's looking for. Good job, Julian, you thought your secrets were safe. How safe are they in the hands of a man you know nothing about?_

Julian takes a slow breath and keeps his eyes trained on the two twin candle lights as he carefully calculates the angles of approach to seize one of the books and read through it without created a shadow on the wall from the light. It will require an incredibly steady hand and amount of concentration but he doesn't let that sway him, letting his hand creep serpentine over the surface of the desk. But first he takes a quick look at the stack of papers. He's slow with them so as not to make a sound and finds to his chagrin that they're written in some spidery script that he cannot understand at a quick glance.  _Of course his own notes wouldn't be in Federation Standard, Julian, it's probably Cardassian. Dammit, I don't know if I can go through all of these fast enough to figure it out as long as it's been._ His eyes instead turns to the books, some textbooks but to his despair he sees that the others are notebooks exactly like his own.  _Alright, Julian, that's not too suspect, the only place to buy them is the stationary section at Quark's Necessities and they're the only ones really worth a damn in buying..._ But upon closer inspection he can see that even the wear is somehow identical to his own book down to every distinct signature that he can recall. Not good. And that's when he hears Jadzia swear softly and he has a feeling she won't be able to distract Garak nearly as long as he needs.

Julian doesn't quite know why he chooses that moment to look over. He tells himself that he needs to look, that he needs to see what his timeframe is, and that one glance would hardly intrude upon the intimacy of the moment. That and more, is what he tells himself as he takes a careful step back, keeping out of the light, one hastily grabbed notebook in hand as he looks over, seeing before anything else the naked back of the man on whom he's been spying. Julian had of course to some intellectual extent imagined, had envisioned the scene which would greet him. But there is the abstract, and then there is the reality of seeing Garak on his knees, head moving faintly up and down, the motion of his shoulders betraying other movement. Julian almost feels his face heat up, voyeur to such an intimate act, and he brings a hand to his mouth to curtail any gasp, any heavy breathing on his part. He makes a fast and furious study of the smooth grey skin, of the dark hair with mussed, messy tendrils clinging to a sweat dampened neck. Julian can see the ridges, wondering if that is hard plating or soft lizard like scales that trail down his spine to the small of his back.

Julian swallows hard, fingers crawling to the hollow of his throat resting there wanting to curl into the skin, wanting to adjust the already low collar as the heat of the room begins to bear down on him sticky and suffocating. Jadzia is breathtaking. The way her head tips back, the way that her body writhes along with every push of her hips, all of it us unashamed in seeking more pleasure. He can only imagine the ardent fervor which greets that enthusiasm in return. He imagines it all too well, really. And it's  _that_  errant thought that breathes life into the subsequent flashing fantasy behind his eyes that follows. Julian imagines then, as he recalls the inquisitive blue eyes that met his that afternoon across the table, that expression looking up at him from that same position on the floor. He can feel his knees start to tremble wobbly, the hand holding the book dropping down, as he pictures with such perverse detail Garak's mouth around his shaft, his tongue tasting, hands holding his hips pinning him to the wall as he swallows him.

Julian's breath catches hard. He's amazed himself at just how lurid his subconscious imagination is as he lets his eyes shut for what he counts to be only a few short seconds. It's easier than he'd have thought to separate Jadzia's pants, her gasps from Garak's own respirations, and much as he might have fantasized about her before that man's arrival, it is not her who commands his attention right now. No, it is only Garak as his mind's eye replaces her long pale fingers with his own, as he imagines trying to push back, trying to squirm, to desperately force more of his length into Garak's waiting mouth. Julian can feel the unconscious movement of his hand holding that book, moving towards center, the flat of it pressing over his groin with a sudden tactile intensity that makes his eyes snap open wide and drops him with a gasp. He covers his mouth with his other hand. Afraid to look up, afraid to move. He'd caught himself before thud drew too much attention but he doesn't know if Garak will still turn to face him, knelt down, head bent, hiding a ridiculous erection.

_Yes, what a position to find yourself in, Julian. Vaunted, famed prodigy Julian Bashir, youngest ever winner of the coveted Carrington, the darling of Starfleet Medical disappears at his greatest moment of triumph to spend his pitiful middle age in hiding, sneaking around a strange man's bedroom to preserve the pathetic tendrils of his miserable secrets. Secrets that already cost you everything, your career, your life in the stars, you damn stupid-_

"Garak…" He hears Jadzia speak and that voice brings him back to the present, to the book in his hand. She says Garak's name but he knows that it's a warning to him, her loud cry masking his lapse perfectly. Julian takes a deep breath and lifts his head, slowly removing the book eyes skimming the first page quickly, his brain deciphering the layers of the careful coding at a speed that only he could master without a key at hand.  _"I think the man I met today may be one of them…"_

His lips are a tight nervous line as he reads further on the page, the writing appearing to be his and yet he has a suspicion that there's something that he's missing, something that he's overlooking for him to grab the right book of the dozen or so he imagines there must be. He lifts up on his knees, quickly, carefully to keep the light from betraying his position as he reaches for another book. Once more he opens to the first page reading  _"I think the man I met today might be one of them..."_  It's not exact. Julian hears Jadzia telling him she cannot wait and he only prays that Garak does not choose this moment of all to turn around. Julian grabs for a third book reading  _"I believe the man I met today could be one of them…"_ And he almost throws the books across the room not knowing which is which or what he even wrote- or rather he's beginning to doubt even  _his_  instant recall, his eidetic memory as the words, the script appear to be his written even in his careful perfect coding.  _No, not so perfect now, is it?_

Julian can feel his anxiety growing as he looks at book after book, the first page reading in some subtle variant of the last until he thinks he's going to go mad. He almost doesn't think to look to the second page, a slight distraction caused by the sound of a heavy ball of fabric hitting the floor and in spite of himself he turns. On his knees looking up, Julian takes a brief pause to admire Jadzia's nude body, wishing irrationally that Garak would move to the side so that he might get a better look of her than just those- he swallows again nearly dropping the book- beautifully shaped breasts no longer covered by fabric. Julian licks his lips absently, a moment's thought to one of her hard pink nipples in his mouth, hands cupping that softness and…  _Focus! For God's sake you need to- "My dearest Leelin, if there is some hope that you're reading this missive…" What on earth is he writing?_ Julian sets that book down, quickly looking to the next to page four  _"When I came to look at the deepest pits of my own betrayal I realized that I had no other recourse but to…"_ More stories. Julian realizes he has no idea which book even belongs where and he's no closer to finding his own.

His own. He frowns at that, the realization coming to him that Garak has obviously deciphered his notebook and already knows everything he'd written down. He could wonder when. There may not have been time to act if it was really so recently but Julian has a strange gut feeling that he's  _not_  Garak's intended target after all if in fact the man has come to Westworld, to Indigo with a murderous intent.  _But that doesn't mean that he's any less dangerous. These books were obviously left for your eyes only. You're the only one here capable of deciphering them. He's… playing with me?_  Julian scans the desktop counting 5 books. He quickly looks in the two desk drawers to the left- unlocked of course- turning up 2 more. He's already looked at two of them. Puzzles, riddles all of them. He looks in the first book he's pulled from the drawer, turning to another random page quickly reading.  _"I ask the doctor- No, he asks me to call him Julian and so I ask Julian to hold very still as my fingers take the liberty of unfastening that teasing top button of his shirt. And I unbutton them, one after another in the darkness where I can see and he cannot until that fabric is pushed from his shoulders, his skin slick and sweaty…"_

His hands fumble, nearly dropping it, closing it shut quickly, almost too hard and he looks over half terrified that he might have been noticed again. But it isn't terror that holds him as he clutches that book hard, his chest heaving as he imagines his literary doppleganger doing the same, Garak's deft fingers unfastening those buttons in a room like this. No, not like this, darker, hotter, and Julian has that button popped, his skin hotter to his own touch than he was expecting. He tries to remember the meditative breathing that he'd learned once but that would be far too loud even amidst the- he swallows and stares harder at Garak's back- noise. Julian lets his fingers slip beneath his shirt, beneath the undone button, short nails scraping over his chest making him bite back a moan, his palm over the book getting sweaty. He can feel a light beading of sweat on his forehead and feel the hair stick to the back of his neck as he makes a study of the ridges of Garak's shoulder, of those muscles, of that effortless motion that moves just enough to let him see a little more.

Julian almost dares that louder labored breathing to escape. He doesn't think Cardassian hearing would decipher it from Jadzia's… from Jadzia's loud lustful moans. Julian's hand is not still, coming around to grab his own shoulder, nails digging hard, the awkward half self embrace trying to hold him back from some madness or another. He sees her eyes meet his, bringing him into this scene far more intimately than he would've imagined, and it's not Garak's face that he sees as she manages a strained half smile but his own. He can smell her too, strong, aroused, wanting, needing, and he would be lying to himself terribly if that didn't fuel this unforgivable distraction in the matter of life and death. He can only dare to imagine the taste of her, the feel of her around him, the feel of her squeezing his tongue buried deep inside her. Julian can feel the painful pressure of his finger clutching his shoulder in response and he lets another elongated blink bring to that darkness behind his eyes the thoroughly debauched dream of him taking her, her hands kneading his back, her heels digging, drawing him in deeper. And it ends with a hard possessive hand pulling his shoulder back, arms around him from behind holding him still just long enough for Garak to-

_Oh God._ Julian pulls himself back from that fevered delusion as he watches Garak sit back, the litany of sounds coming to a low rush of heavy breathing, and suddenly his breath seems far too loud in his own ears. Julian lets go of his shoulder feeling a dull ache, feeling the palm print he's likely left on the notebook. He should take this one. This one with the evidence of his shame, this one held to his chest, or even the one pressed hard against that stir in his groin to temper that fire, that one that likely… smells of him intermingled with freshly pressed paper. Julian frowns deeply, forcing his attention away from Jadzia's heaving body sitting up, flush, peaked with arousal at every point. He turns away quickly and places that book back beneath two others. One of these is the truth. So many lies and one truth lies amongst them. That has to be the game. But he still has four more to check and he may have already run out of time. He throws a look over his shoulder as he begins a quiet desperate scramble to leaf through those last clues.

They're talking. It's good that they're talking because it allows his body to draw further back from that lust maddened edge on which he found himself dangerously teetering.  _One of us tells only truth while the other of us only lies. Is that how this goes?_ He scans his mind quickly trying to decipher the commonality as he lays the books out, on his knees.  _Think Julian,_ _think_ _. There's something here that he wants you to see. Or maybe you should be going for what he doesn't want you to see. Alright, Julian, rule out the ridiculous missive to Leeta. Rule out the… graphic depictions of intercourse and that leaves you with…_ He quickly reads the other four one after the other.  _"…spent as the prisoner of a Klingon determined to take back Terok Nor for the Empire. I cannot believe I felt myself actually longing for the shrill demands of the Intendant…"_ Book one seems plausible _. Jadzia said he seemed to have a basic understanding of Klingon…_ The next far too fanciful, _"…told me that my name was Serot now and I'd been deep undercover for ten years as a Bajoran that I could scarcely remember…"_  He doesn't think that's likely but-

But his sensitive hearing suddenly catches the clack of a zipper that has yet to be undone and as Jadzia sits there nude that can only mean… Julian's head shoots up rocket fast at the sound mid way to setting the next book back. The words he'd just deciphered  _"I had understood that it was no longer possible to pretend that I didn't see what was going on. They were afraid of what I had uncovered and it was becoming clear to me that my life was in…"_  Julian holds that book, the words echoing so close to his own past he knows he lingered reading too long. And in that lingering he now sees Jadzia undoing Garak's trousers. Her intuition had so neatly picked out Julian's fascination that night when they watched him, and he can see for himself that that fascination has only grown. Perhaps it is not  _he_  who should fear Garak but the other way around if what he's read is true.  _Is that why you were watching me?_  Julian feels a sense of danger of a new type entirely as Jadzia's hands move and the last vestiges of clothing drops to the floor.

"Well it looks like I've lost a second wager." Julian thinks back to their silly "boxers or briefs" conversation remembering the banality, the teasing when Garak first arrived, before Julian began to suspect that he might be dangerous. Yes, he was right, after all, but he doesn't have time to consider that as he watches, eyes going wide as more skin is revealed for his greedy eyes. Julian memorizes all of it. He watches as the small of Garak's back tapers off, ridges, mountains giving way to smooth skin. Tight, toned buttocks come into view and that remnant of an ache fervently pulls to the forefront once more. He wishes that he could touch, could run his tongue over ever bit of skin, could hold him open and-

"You are… a wicked… woman…"  _What are you doing? Jadzia? God I need to know I need to see just…let me…_

"Let me see…" he mouths, not even realizing his lips have moved until her head peers around Garak's hip to look. One bright blue mischievous eye winks at him- all their silly talk of Cardassian anatomy, of the differences, of the distinctions that come into play in those most intimate of moments flitting through his thoughts- as he holds that book like a lifeline, knowing the rest lay scattered on the desktop but-

"Watch me, Julian. In case you want to try later." Julian nearly hisses a quick denial to that fact but he shuts his mouth. Instead, he slowly moves sideways on his knees, just enough to remain where Garak is not likely to see him; the way Garak stares at Jadzia, the way his body trembles, almost buckles makes Julian believe turning his head is the last thing he plans. And as much as he is so damn desperate to see her every movement up close, taste Garak, taste the Cardassian on her mouth he keeps himself tightly coiled on his knees, the balls of his feet tucked underneath him should flight be required. The door is at his back, some ten feet away in the large room, but Julian knows that his reflexes are still faster than not just a man his age, but most than normal men of any age. Especially when he's prepared, and as tense and tightly wound as his own body is, ready to act in any way to relieve some of the tightness, he's sure he could very well blur out the door like a flash of a stopwatch.

But he can see her. That's what matters. He can see her suck. He can see the tight seal of her mouth as she pulls her head back- for his benefit he can tell with that subtle glance in his direction- and Julian knows his eyes are wide as he watches her draw Garak's cock to full hardness in her mouth from that spot that he cannot quite make out. And he sees it little by little, every ridge that she draws deeper, the shaft getting thicker, her lips spreading with its girth as he watches her slow careful breath, the task seeming endless until Julian himself wonders obscenely just how large it is. He is aware intellectually that whatever he imagines is the result of the optical perception, of a subjective perspective, but he still cannot help the image of that thickness hard, slick in his hand, and it's not Jadzia's mouth that worships it in that fantasy but  _his_  that-

Jadzia's head turns to him under the guise of some sensual purr. Her head moves back and he sees Garak's stiffness. Julian's mouth is dry, open panting that he wasn't even aware he was affecting. He stops his hand from reaching down, from adjusting what is once again at the forefront of his mind, painful, insistent, needing anything from either of the two that he watches. But this isn't the time and Julian draws back to his spot knowing that he won't have time to rearrange the desk but sensing that it wouldn't matter if he did.

"Do you have it?" He knows he needs to answer quickly but the answer itself while it should be a simple yes or no, is far more complicated than that. Julian doesn't have time for complication, however, and as he quickly tries to think of the best way to answer he finds himself drawing a pitiful blank.

"I-"

"No time." He catches that whisper just as she sends both she and Garak to the ground quickly. Julian looks at her feeling almost helpless, seeing the dagger still strapped to her thigh. Her eyes meet his again in question, her face flickering with a sudden coldness. Julian sees briefly superimposed over his dear friend the steely resolve of the woman who's killed before for the sake of the dead and damned.  _And you are certainly damned, aren't you, Julian? It's going to haunt you forever. You're never going to... No, now's not the time._ Julian quickly shakes his head.

"I have what I need," he mouths with careful enunciation watching her relax back into the enjoyment of the moment.

"It seems you have me at a disadvantage," he hears Garak say as he crawls spider like across the floor as close to the wall as he can manage. His eyes remain carefully focused on the both of them lest Garak start to turn his head Julian is sure that he can move quickly enough that Jadzia can divert him.

He sees her carefully watching him, can see that silent urging to move quicker and he does; almost. Julian steps back, back, mentally counting the distance to the door, eyes not leaving the two of them as she shifts, as she tells him he's lost. Good. A good diversion. And yet he hardly seems moved. If anything Garak appears… amused intermingled with that waiting lust. Julian isn't sure that he likes it but he doesn't have a choice as she slides over him, hear soft curvy body art in motion and he can almost make out the detail of Garak's- Julian swipes, hand going for the door, hitting air and he forces himself for one more damn moment to stop thinking about that.  _You have what you need, Julian, now get out and stop staring already. You know what's about to happen and you know what you need to do now. You need to read the book and find Miles and-_ And Miles should be down there in the root cellar with Leeta watching what they can see. Julian swallows hard as he thinks about that, hurrying out and down the stairs not knowing what he'll find when he gets there.  _Soon, Garak, we'll have the truth of all of this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Which of the stories are true? They're all true. Even the lies? Especially the lies ;)


	12. Valley of Hunted Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last the contents of the notebooks revealed! Both of them! A look at a few selections from both books. Now how much of Garak's can be believed? ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Well it took a bit longer but yes THIS week is the double update! Julian Garak and Julian Garak (I know, what took so long, right?) And of course the games between them must continue because it's more fun that way. Ah, Garak, he'd lie if you asked him what the weather outside was. Anyhoo thanks to everyone reading and C&C is always welcome :)

_From Julian Bashir's notes_

 

_I think the man that I met today may be one of them. Jadzia, you are the only one other than myself capable of deciphering this so let this be my last testimony should my life come to an unfortunate end in these next few days. I’ll try to observe him as best as I can without being noticed but I’m not so naive as to think that I may not succeed. There are still a million questions running through my mind. I don’t know how anyone knew that I was in Indigo. I’d never been here a day in my life until leaving Starfleet nor did I know anyone here. The last one who’d come was at least five years past now. And if it’s Section 31 then I don’t know why they would send a Cardassian this time. I know we’ll be ready. We’re always ready for them. But that doesn’t mean that my nerves won’t still be on edge this entire time. This should provide you all the evidence that you need should we fail, should we not make it. Take it to Odo. He has never stood law abiding citizens to be  murdered here. This is still the last safe place for me I think. Anywhere else in the Alpha Quadrant as far as I know my life is forfeit so please don’t tell yourself I should have run. You know there’s nowhere far enough to run where they won’t find me. But here I had a chance. Here I lived with your valued friendship, with Miles… let’s not rehash that. Especially not now that I’m gone._

_Right, totally done being maudlin, let’s get started. Today is stardate 46379.1. It’s late and I find myself unable to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about him. There is something about the way he looks at me, the way he watches me, that is more than just simple curiosity. That’s the first thing. That is, there is a predatory air to that look and I know that Jadzia might dismiss it as some suitor or another but I_ _know_ _that expression. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it the last time that one of them came and as long as it’s been I had stupidly begun to think that it was safe. It seems that father was right, it’s never safe. It’s never going to be safe and I was a fool to believe otherwise. I shouldn’t have invited him into my office. It was an impulse. He was bleeding_ _and though I hate to admit it when I first saw him I thought he had the most stunning blue eyes_ _. That was my first mistake and tomorrow morning I’m going to talk to Miles about changing the locks, about changing a lot of things in case he tries to come in like the last one. Some of the security measures have fallen into disrepair but I’m confident so far in my abilities to hear him, to sense him. There are some advantages to being the thing that I am, after all._

 _But today I stitched up his hand. It was bitten rather badly and that’s when I noticed that inconsistency in his story. He claims to be a tailor but when you look at his hands you see none of the necessary callouses. That is, they’re not correct. And that’s not even considering that there are no Cardassian here or anywhere around this part of Westworld. It makes no sense that he’d come here unless it’s hunting me. I didn’t let on that I knew. He didn’t ask any suspect question but that actually makes me more suspicious. The room where I bandaged him contains any number of oddities. It’s deliberate- they spark conversation, sort of put people at ease and yet he never so much as commented on them. It almost seemed that he was looking for something very specific. I don’t know what proof they require for the bounties but I_ _do_ _know that there still isn’t one set in Central, I made sure that I had Odo look into that. He keeps me updated and up til the last month no one with my name nor description has been added. Of course that’s not speaking of the numerous bounties that exist in the rest of thee Alpha Quadrant so perhaps Sloan finally made good on his promise after all. I hate saying things like this but I’d almost hoped the man was dead. It would be very like him to send someone like Garak, someone who seemed that unlikely._

_Garak has spoken enough of the tailoring trade. He’s very well up to speed and he claims that he wanted to see the “wild frontier” that they call Westworld with his own eyes. That seems unlikely. The only Cardassians here are the separatists and those former exiles of the dissident movement. I can tell he’s very loyal to the Cardassian State. The few statements he made about Cardassia Prime and central Command were the very soul of a loyalist. Of course those may have been part of a cover as well but why use such deceit when speaking to a backwater human doctor? He kept looking at me and I was beginning to find it rather unnerving. He asked me about myself. Nothing unusual, except he seemed very curious about my native born status. I don’t know that my name holds much recognition outside the Federation but he seemed not to know it when we first met… But I think a seasoned spy would know better than to let any tells slip. I’ll ask Leeta to keep an eye on him. It’s impossible to stay here for any amount of time without becoming acquainted with her. She has the experience and her eyes don’t miss anything. She also has a knowledge of Cardassians that’s unparalleled even by Jadzia thanks to her past. I think she’ll be vital in uncovering the truth of why Garak is here. I think I know exactly the tact to take as well should it become necessary..._

 

_… have gone by. It’s been difficult to observe him closely. I’ve heard whispers of a new bounty at Central on a Cardassian named Aamin Marritza so perhaps they are related. Leeta dismissed that right off and said there was no way possible. She did say though that he stays mostly holed up in his room. She’s let me know that he’s ventured out a few times but has not asked any suspicious questions. Kira’s been watching him more, I think to determine if he really is that man but I’m more inclined to believe Leeta over Kira’s prejudices. As for Leeta, she might be the key. Kira once told me that Cardassian men have a weakness for Bajoran women. They view them as weak, as inferior. It supposedly increases their standing amongst their brethren to have a lot of Bajoran servants and slaves. I really don’t know if I should believe that or not. Leeta said if anything Garak seems to be overly focused on Quark- not me or even her. I hadn’t considered that possibility before. Maybe he was sent here to assassinate Quark. Quark has a cousin Gaila who he’s let slip wouldn’t mind seeing him out of the way but Jadzia says that’s nothing but simple Ferengi posturing. I’ve spoken with Jadzia- I think it may be necessary for the two of them to meet. I trust her and I trust her assessment of people. She was the one who discovered the last one that came after me even before I could. Miles thinks that I shouldn’t take any chances- that I should let Kira believe him to be the bounty target but I cannot kill an innocent man out of my own fear._

_Miles agreed with her though I could see he didn’t like it. He’s done a lot of things over the years that he doesn’t like, for my sake. I think that Miles knows better than any all the things I’m afraid of most. I don’t really know why he even stays, I told him that he doesn’t owe me anything. He’s in danger by staying here with me. I don’t understand why he would put Keiko in harm’s way by remaining in Indigo,how he spent all those years guarding Molly, Yoshi, myself included in that. I suppose now that they’re grown he sees no reason to leave now of all times but surely he can see the toll this is taking on... But I cannot dwell on that. While I have his help I have to make use of it. …I’m a doctor, I help people, I save lives… that’s what he said to me once. It was a hard lesson he’d learned during the war. A sick thing he called it to have to look back, to have to measure the weight of one man’s life against another but in war those are the rules. That’s what this is, he said. This is a war the Federation had declared years ago against us. And that… it was… it was more important sometimes for me to live… that I needed to come before those who could not save the lives that I have… Miles I... I hate that. I really… I really_ _hate_ _that… But I will do whatever it takes to survive just like I promised you. I owe your memory that much. Right, not talking about that anymore... Garak, this is talking about Garak. We need to observe him for a few more days… maybe weeks, maybe months so that we know what he’s doing here. Jadzia thinks I might be jumping the gun but we can’t take any chances. Everyone, no exceptions has to be checked. It’s the only way to stay safe. But I do worry. I worry that someday the life of the wrong person may be taken… and I cannot stand that thought. I worry that about Garak in fact that whatever he may be may not warrant a death sentence…_

_God help me…_

 

_From Garak’s notebook #5_

 

_When they came for me it was unexpected. Ah, there I go lying already. My apologies, doctor, it seems that I’ve started with a lie. There is a saying I’m told amongst humans, “once a liar, always a liar”. I can quite honestly say that I’ve been accused of having never told the truth once in my entire life. I’ve found myself, that those lacking imagination for deceit lack the ability to appreciate the art for what it is. Understand than, that this is difficult for me even now to share with anyone let alone a stranger. However upon reading your words, I came to realize that if there is but one soul on this desolate dying rock who may understand my plight, who would understand my disillusionment and disenchantment, with the world it would be you. I feel remiss in not understanding the significance of your name, in not recognizing you from the outset. I’m afraid that I’m not as familiar with Starfleet’s storied roster and indeed, your story seems one that would be a mighty epic. I do not, of course, profess to know everything, but I only hope these humble words find their way into your capable hands amongst the myriad of fanciful tales I’ve no doubt you’ve also unearthed. You see, Doctor, I, much like yourself find myself in a peril of sorts, and I would do a great disservice to us both if I were to paint a far less dangerous picture than exists. I too know what it is like to be hunted, to have to look over your shoulder, to wonder when “they” will come for you. Oh that’s not to say it is the same “they” of course for the “they” that haunts your deepest dreams is a… horse of a far different color than the ones who haunt mine._

_I don’t believe them entirely dissimilar in their malice, in their quest to destroy, however. As a matter of fact, it would behoove you to destroy this evidence of my character, of my very existence, and expunge its contents from every sacred space of your heart lest_ _They_ _should ever find you. I trust your code, of course, and even for one… such as myself it proved a daunting task to crack. I was much impressed with your use of metaphor. Yes, if one does have eyes that cannot see the world may seem dark but in fact there is light. But just as I deciphered it without the key- and I imagine you must keep the key close to your heart should one need to read these- those that pursue me are certain to as well. I assure you that your secrets,_ _all_ _of your secrets are safe with me and thus I impart to you mine. But be mindful that you do not keep them long. As that saying goes, the hills have eyes, and even here both you and I know that Indigo is not entirely safe. I shall understand if it is necessary to impart this information to a carefully selected confidante. I have the utmost trust in your empathic abilities._

 _I fear I must keep this brief, feel free to chide me in failing that duty already. For as much as I would long to regale you with all the all the fanciful tales of a misspent youth, there may be, at any time, no time in spite of the precautions which have already been taken to assure my safety. Please offer Leeta my sincerest apologies for taking advantage of this case of mistaken identity to see to my own safety. Those like ourselves who are exiled and hunted must do what we must to survive, after all. I am as you may have discovered a man who does not exist. You surely have seen by now that all records of my name, my identity have been expunged from my sojourn here and possibly from the very annals of Cardassian history itself. I do not believe that I shall be terribly missed as I leave behind no one to grieve for me. That is, however the sacrifice that I willingly undertook to serve my greatest and deepest love, that being Cardassia herself. (And as a side note should you find yourself able to procure a copy of_ _The Never Ending Sacrifice_ _, it is a read that I highly recommend). I can also sense that should I not act quickly and take the necessary steps to protect myself that it may very well be too late to uphold that oath which I so faithfully swore._

_Now I feel that I must warn you, doctor- if in fact you are still reading this far- that knowledge is dangerous. Not just what you know but what your enemies think that you know. I’m sure you can appreciate then that any association with me itself may very well endanger your life. I shall not hold it against you should you decide to continue no further and wash your hands of the entire ordeal. Should we pass each other in the street with nothing more than a tip of the hat and a vaguely impartial smile I would in fact consider it a great wisdom on your part. I myself am not a particularly noble man at times, and I must confess that is the course I may very well undertake were our positions reversed. However if you are still reading, and I applaud your resolve and your laudable human dedication to the pursuit of justice, then know that the information I am about to impart could very well affect the fate of my home world if not the entire Cardassian race itself. I shall not ask your aid, I could not imagine saddling you with an even weightier burden than that which you already bear, but if you will please indulge me your confessor’s ear then I shall endeavor to make the most use of it._

_There is a traitor in our midst. By “our”, perhaps I might take a step back and confess to you now (if you do not already suspect) that I am an operative in the Obsidian Order. This must remain between you and I and can never be made mention of in public. To you, and the rest of the world, I must always remain Garak, the simple tailor or even Aamin Marritza for all the weight that name carries, it does not hold a candle to the… I believe the myth that I studied made mention of Atlas and the Earth which he held upon his shoulders. That is me, and while you may find the declaration to be dramatic, know that I only wish to impart to you the sheer gravity of the situation with which I am faced. As I have stated there is a traitor amongst us and I fear that it is entirely possible that said treachery may ascend to the highest levels of the order. It pains my heart deeply to even consider that possibility but I must. The evidence that I have discovered names several suspects and is the only thing I was able to take with me during my exodus._

_You are quite aware by now that there are those who pursue me. There has already been an elaborate attempt on my life- my destination has been compromised and it is only by the grace of the State and by providence as the religious might say that I happened upon this world, where my whereabouts are that much harder to trace. Even so it might be known that I am here in Indigo but this is far safer than the larger cities- especially those of the main Cardassian territory here. I fled here following a much hastier attempt on my life, I’m quite thankful for the impetuous nature of those behind the attack for if they were the same who attempted to end my life under the name of a dead prisoner, I might not be alive today. And I need this time to review the information that I have, and attempt to uncover the villains still at large. I have managed to arrange to meet with a few contacts who will be arriving in the coming months, and I can only hope for their safe arrival so that I may gather further evidence I need to bring these conspirators- Guls, I am filled with agony at the thought that there are even more than one- to true Cardassian justice._

_What follows will doubtless mean nothing to you, but it is the list of those that I suspect to be part of this conspiracy ranked in order from least to most likely. These are the names I have narrowed down upon a myriad of suspects, and none pain me so much as the last. But I do not have the luxury of that which you humans call “ennui”. I fear that with my late discovery of this duplicitous plot against the Cardassian State I may already be out of time to prevent a complete disaster. Had I not witnessed with my own eyes the following exchange amongst two of my more austere and upright colleagues I may not have believed it myself. I had understood that it was no longer possible to pretend that I didn’t see what was going on. They were afraid of what I had uncovered and it was becoming clear to me that my life was in danger. However by my calculations I should still have 2 years before all the pieces fall into place for those behind the scenes to act. I shall also need a way to secure the data- it is only by the most fortunate of circumstances that the isolinear rods containing my findings so far were not part of my sojourn to this planet. I’ve already found my PADD inoperable, but I shall use even those advantages to my disadvantage. What matters is that there is knowledge in my head that on this planet cannot be so easily extracted, thanks to the failings of the sophisticated machinery that would be necessary._

_Ah but for the beginning I must lay down the last dark days of my life on Cardassia Prime. For it was this time in which I was able to stumble across such a nefarious plot to infiltrate and subvert key members of Central Command. I have even considered the possibility that there are those who have already been compromised- Tekeny Ghemor springs immediately to mind. His daughter Iliana was one of our best operatives deep undercover in the resistance movement and yet I cannot help but suspect strongly that the Legate does not share her loyalty. His access to the and contacts make him a Prime Candidate to bring down Central Command. We had been watching him carefully but discreetly and yet I noticed the changes in his routine that indicated to me that he’d been alerted to our eyes. We had thought the dissident movement quashed but the voles merely burrowed deeper into the shadows, and where the general public lives on in blissful ignorance of the sacrifices made for them, they continue to act with their secret subversions._

_It is a failing of so many men to fall into some misguided spirit of dissenting patriotism, and I fear it has ensnared some of my weaker minded colleagues as well. Natima Lang is a very convincing woman- I can feel her hand in this- and yet_ _that_ _is exactly what concerns me. This has the dissident movement written all over it, and this is where my own investigations have led me to something far darker. If there is one lesson I have learned in life it is to always be suspect when answers come too easily. That’s been considered a failing of mine at more than one time in my life. And that is why I find myself alone with these findings, unable to turn to anyone else I may have trusted until I unveil the identity of the true would be usurers. It seems I may have lied again to you, doctor. I do find myself in need of your assistance if you are willing. Study the list, study the facts, study all the evidence I have given you doctor and then tell me… can I count on you my trusted secret keeper? You who have kept so many secrets of your own for so long would be a worthy ally. If you are still willing, here are the facts as I have pieced them together to date…_


	13. Aces and Eights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak goes to collect his winnings but finds a surprise waiting for him instead in the form of one Doctor Bashir. Now what could the game possibly be this time?

“Now this is a pleasant surprise.” Garak refers to the sight of Doctor Julian Bashir sitting on the edge of the large bed, shirt in its usual careless half unbutton. Doctor Bashir peers up at him. His hazel eyes glint in the somewhat dim light of the oil lamp on the bedside table, as they look over the rims of spectacles that Garak is mostly sure are fake. Garak takes a dramatic step back reading the name on the brass plate beside the doorway. It does in fact read “Jadzia Dax” in elegant script. Garak looks back in the room once more at the far end of the hallway, wondering for an insane moment if the doctor is going to lunge at him and try to throw him backwards over the balcony overlooking the common room. _There’s that paranoia hard at work again, Elim._ He ignores that rational chastisement. Rationality has been a scarce bedfellow since his arrival here, and he’s not about to try to bring any to bear where there is clearly none. Oh he has an inkling of course as to why Doctor Bashir is sitting there defiantly on what he assumes is Jadzia’s bed, and it has nothing to do with them possibly being lovers.

 _No, he, like you knows all too well that she is the weak link. She is the gossip who enjoys a good tale over good sense, and her exploits in town along with the rest of the alpha quadrant are rather infamous. No, there’s no way he would let you speak with her alone, if at all, and it seems he’s come to offer himself up as a noble sacrifice._ Garak steps into the room, smile growing as Doctor Bashir attempts not to look nervous.

“Yes, a pleasant surprise indeed but I must confess I was rather looking forward to Miss Dax’s company tonight. Not that yours isn’t a welcome substitute,” he adds quickly. 

“Shut the door please, Mr. Garak.” Firm this time, gathering more courage. _Good, that’s it, doctor, I know you’re a far better actor than you let on._

“Oh, no Mister, Doctor Bashir,” he says as he steps inside, clicking the door closed and turning the locking dials. “Just Garak. Plain, simple, Garak. I would think a man with your… credentials would remember that detail.” 

Doctor Bashir holds up a notebook- exactly the one Garak had intended for him to take- and continues to look at him with that weighty expression. Garak takes a brief moment to survey the room, seeing that it’s far larger than his. He knows that it is not possible on this planet to initiate any sort of space distortion or compression, but he almost wonders if there isn’t some other optical illusion at work from the outside. He does not think that the building would retain its current dimensions if each door held such a large suite. There is the bed at the far corner of the room, Doctor Bashir seated on the queen mattress looking not entirely out of place. Between them he sees a large wooden sofa, ornately carved figures on the arms of the dark wood, cushions covered with a velvety maroon upholstery. He also sees a tall chair of similar design that’s closer to him and he has a feeling that whatever orchestration the doctor has concocted it will go far more smoothly with Garak’s compliance. He walks carefully, slowly over a woven rug, cream, dotted with a series of circles of various colors, some large, some small- polka dots, he remembers that whimsical name.

“Yes, of course... plain, simple, Garak,” Doctor Bashir agrees as Garak sits on the ornate cushion  of the sofa and makes himself comfortable. He takes note of a pitcher of lemonade placed on the side table between sofa and chair, and is sure to accommodate his host and sit right next to it. For a brief ridiculous moment he wonder if it might be poisoned. That seems unlikely but he doesn’t particularly want to take that chance. He watches Doctor Bashir finish scribbling down a few notes in that notebook before closing it. The doctor stands and walks over to that chair looking uncertain for just a moment. He looks at Garak’s eyes turning from the pitcher and glasses and sighs.

“Of course, you think it’s poisoned, don’t you?” Doctor Bashir sits forward on the large chair while Garak looks up at a large painting framed on the wall in front of them. In the picture is a dancer, beautifully highlighted center stage. Her arms are raised high above her head and he sees a long ribbon twirling a spiral down alongside. She has light blonde hair swept back, and the crowd behind her is a blur, the darkness splashed whimsically with few bright splashes of color. Not a dancer, he realizes, but a gymnast.

Garak doesn’t immediately answer him, oddly transfixed by the painting. He recalls stories of Emony Dax, told by the host herself and he wonders if that might be her. He hears Doctor Bashir clear his throat as if to work himself up to whatever great scheme he is playing now. And Garak is certain that there is another great scheme in the works for that first notebook has revealed the necessity of a rather cunning lifestyle. That pleased him far more than he realized, and though it was only by happenstance that he acquired the book, it still would have gone against his instinct to merely hand it back without divesting it of its secrets. Making a playful counter move in return only added to the fun. _Yes, you selected book number five just as you were supposed to, my dear doctor. That was the only one of the seven where the first page perfectly mimicked your phrasing after passing that quixotic code. I have no doubt you imagined you’d uncovered the one singular truth amongst a pile of lies, but that’s the beauty of the game, doctor. They are all true just as they are all equally lies. And now that I know you’ve taken the bait, I can be certain that you’ve digested and disseminated the appropriate narrative amongst your allies._

Garak has no reason to believe that the doctor has not spread the story appropriately either. He can tell the slight change in demeanor from the four co conspirators, Leeta included. It had been unfortunate to uncover her duplicity, but only to a point. And she was _good_. She played the part expert; most men would never have thought to search the room for spying devices especially on such a primitive world but Garak is nothing if not thorough. And even if one were inclined to believe her unaware of what the engineer O’Brien had concocted, there could be no doubt after that night that she had witnessed with her own eyes everything that mirrored periscope had to offer. _Ah, but then she clearly spoke with Doctor Bashir, and that sense of betrayal whittled down to nothing, didn’t it? Yes, she knows as does he that the man Elim Garak has fled Cardassia Prime fearing for his life, coming to a world where he is least likely to be detected, to a town where he can observe the comings and goings of all travelers lest a single one escape notice. And how fortuitous that he should happen upon a town where there is a man who feels just as imperiled as he to spark such a kinship._

 _You should have been a novelist, Elim._ Garak watches as Doctor Bashir takes a deep breath, finding his silence in answer to that question doubtless some indicator of affront. He decides to let that smile remain on his face and allows Doctor Bashir to believe what he will as he fidgets and starts again.

“Right, I can only imagine that that’s a terribly poor joke. Let me start again, please. I…” Doctor Bashir looks at him with such liquid eyes of sincerity that Garak actually weighs truth to be in his favor. “I owe you an apology.” Garak is sure to feign the proper weight at that statement before magnanimously spreading his hands.

“I think it’s fair to say that we have both been laboring under a set of unfortunate assumptions. I can only say that I’m thankful that nothing worse has come of it.” He’s about to take a drink of lemonade when he catches Doctor Bashir’s eyes flicker almost anxiously to that very gesture. Garak considers that as he pours the liquid to the glasses, sure to allow a generous amount of ice slip into his own.

 _Too late to show any suspicion now, Elim, you’ll simply have to take your chances that this is completely benign -unlikely- that if there is a substance it is not a poison – possible-, and then determine if it lies in the ice or the liquid._ He holds out a glass to Doctor Bashir. Of course only a fool would drink a poison without the proper antidote, but then again he considers in this moment as well that there is a possibility that whatever is… unique about Doctor Bashir’s anatomy, it may well have to do with an ability to quickly metabolize and or synthesize out toxic substances. However he is far too professional to allow it to give him pause. He takes a careful slip of ice, and ice only, trusting his tongue to detect anything suspect. He tastes nothing. Garak watches Doctor Bashir take a long drink as well. He has no choice but to further observe and investigate. He’s sure to note the level of liquid when Doctor Bashir sets his own glass down.

“Yes, as am I,” Doctor Bashir agrees with a slightly nervous looking scratch at the back of his neck. He glances down to the book in his hand as if steeling himself for some grand offensive. “I ah… suppose you’re wondering why I’m here and not Jadzia then?” He looks at him waiting for the appropriate response which Garak indulges easily.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he agrees, setting the glass down noting a small look of chagrin. Doctor Bashir shoulders on, leaning in just a bit.

“I understand that the two of you had a little wager,” he stops suddenly,  looking furiously at the floor and Garak can only imagine what it is that he’s remembering. “The er… questions that is… You were going to ask her three questions and well I thought I..” he takes a deep breath and forcing himself to look Garak full in the face. 

Garak is aware of the few feet that separates them but that distance is easily cleaved by the long arm that reaches out towards him. Doctor Bashir, to Garak’s curiosity, takes his hand. Garak allows it, the memory of their brief dinner coming to him, that taking of the hand, that expression, repeated with the Bajoran woman Kira. _There is some meaning in this then. A human custom? No, that’s not it at all._ There is a certain way that the doctor captures his eyes, a thumb carefully to his pulse he notes this time. Garak finds himself looking back in those eyes, a hazy sea seeming to spiral around into something poetic. Doctor Bashir’s cadence changes, his voice soft, a sleep song that seeks to trigger some other part of his conscious, Garak suspects. _Fascinating… just when I think I have you figured out, doctor, you display such promise as this…_

“I thought you would want to ask me those questions instead. Isn’t that right, Garak?”

He looks into those eyes, not betraying anything, wiping any indicator of thought or calculation from his expression- his time as a gardener has honed that vapid stare to perfection. _There is a compulsion. I can tell that’s exactly what you’re doing and perhaps it might have worked that night before I had some inkling of what you were capable of but now..._ Now he plays along carefully retaining his full cognizance and awareness. It wouldn’t do to have the doctor suspect that his little trick is ineffective after all. That may come in use later. Garak nods slowly, not quite sure if he is affecting the proper response with that dull agreement.

“Yes, I believe that would better suit my purposes.” Doctor Bashir smiles at him- satisfied but not smug- and sits back flipping that notebook open.

“I thought that you might feel that way,” he says already feverishly scribbling. Garak does not detect any physiological difference after doing a brief internal check and decides to risk a drink of the liquid itself. He drinks slowly, cautiously as the doctor completes whatever he is writing, and is not quite sure that he detects a true difference in taste or if it’s only his paranoia speaking.

“I consider myself somewhat of a mentalist,” Doctor Bashir informs him conversationally. Garak isn’t quite familiar with the term but he can guess based on the etymology that it has some relation to a psychic or magic phenomena. “That is, I can read your mind.” There’s a playful grin, a mystical waggle of his fingers before he continues. “So I thought that I might make you a proposition.” Garak takes another long drink, raising a brow ridge at that choice of word as he sets the glass down.

“A… proposition?” he asks innocently and is quite pleased to see a slight widening of those eyes behind the thin frames. Doctor Bashir opens his mouth- doubtless to protest- but Garak is quick to continue, “My, my, my, first, the lovely Miss Dax, and now yourself, just full of propositions, the lot of you.” He smiles, seeing a flustered Doctor Bashir scramble and nearly drop the notebook, shaking his head wildly.

“No! That’s ehm… not what I… that… that’s not to say that I don’t find you quite… that is, I’m flattered but…” His eyes vacillate quickly between Garak’s face and the floor, and for a moment it seems he might hyperventilate. He downs half the glass of lemonade in the interim.

Garak’s own expression doesn’t change from that polite smile and as Doctor Bashir looks up at him once more a look of charming irritation appears on his face as he practically slams it back down.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you?” Garak can of course tell from the context of Doctor Bashir’s words the intent behind the unfamiliar jargon, but he chooses to ignore it.

“Are you so certain it wouldn’t be the other way around?” He expects a similar reaction but he finds the doctor having recovered with a small smirk turning up the corner of his mouth.

“That remains to be seen now, doesn’t it,” he fires back far more sure of himself than he initially let on. It is only by a quick drop of his eyes that Garak can sense his uncertainty in the flirtation. He doesn’t allow it to delay him however as he presses on.

“Let’s say then so that there’s no misunderstanding, that I have a game in mind, Garak. If you’d be willing to indulge me, that is.”

“Some might say that my very presence in the absence of my betting partner would be indulgence enough, but I must confess that you have me intrigued, doctor. After all, you are quite the man of mystery and as you had correctly guessed… there are a few things I’d like to know about you.” Doctor Bashir sits back, just a touch dramatically, and Garak allows him to slip back into that feeling of control. 

“Thought so.” He flips the book open crossing his leg, looking like more what Jadzia would coin a traditional head shrinker than a physician. “If you recall I told you I’m a bit of a mentalist and a part of that ability is the ability, not to predict the future, but to predict, to plumb the deepest corners of the mind. And _your_ mind, Garak is what I think I’ve figured out. Now you’re going to ask me three questions and I have every certainty that I know what those three questions will be. I’m going to write them down here on this page and then place the sheet of paper underneath this chair folded quite nicely and _you_ are going to ask me anything you desire. And I bet…” He shoots that dangerously look- dangerous in just how sensual it is in its intensity- as he finishes.

“Well now, since you seem to be a betting man, I’ll go double or nothing with you.  If I’m correct then it will be my turn to put the screws to you just a bit. But if I lose then you can ask me three more questions that I must answer honestly.” Garak is immediately intrigued as both he and the doctor take a long drink at the same time, looking at each other, some silent thought passing between them. _Now this is quite an interesting turn and I must say it’s a much more exciting one than anything else I might have anticipated tonight. A mentalist, is it? No, not a mind reader, but a very clever man who knows his own writing inside and out and believes he has enough of a dossier on his opponent to know exactly which questions he will ask, and where they fall in line with the average layman. But then again, the best psychic probe can often be undone neatly with a little logic, a little depth of thought and I believe I already know which questions those would be. Now as to whether or not I should humor you, that remains to be seen._

Garak sets the glass down, settling back into the couch getting more at ease. He feigns consideration having already made up his mind. The longer he can engage Doctor Bashir in an intimate- or at least what he believes to believe an intimate conversation- the more he can find out. _And the best interrogator knows that answers come not just from questions but from those_ _deep, intimate conversations where one reveals their own darkest secrets._ Or so his unwitting clients usually believe. He can feel Doctor Bashir’s eyes on his as he makes a study of the picture once more, noticing a faint trail of spots along the leg of the proud gymnast. Emony Dax, indeed. He does not allow that silence to go on this time, knowing that it’s best for the doctor to believe himself in full control. He nods definitively as he turns back to Doctor Bashir.

“You make a most interesting... proposition, Doctor Bashir, and I find myself strangely compelled to acquiesce to your little game.” _Ah, and there’s that look. I’ve read him right, he_ _did_ _pull some trick, and he believes it to be working perfectly. Good. But not quite good enough._ “Alright, I agree to your terms, though I warn you even Vulcans cannot claim to successfully pierce the veil of the Cardassian mind so easily.” He watches the smile grow on Doctor Bashir’s face as he takes another drink of the lemonade, the beverage true to its form leaving him with a thirst for more. “I do have one question though that I cannot help but immediately call to mind. Perhaps not even a question so much as a concern.”

“A concern?”

“It’s simply that as much as I would like to believe in the virtue of men,” he says with a perfectly straight face, “I wonder how we shall know beyond a mere gentleman’s agreement that we both speak the truth and not merely the truth as is convenient to us.” 

He reaches for the glass, finding it empty already as Doctor Bashir almost finishes his own. Garak finds it curious that the answer doesn’t come right away. Rather, the doctor finishes his glass as well with a somewhat lusty sigh, a wipe of his mouth before greeting Garak with a smile far too self assured for this small victory. 

“Oh it’s quite simple really,” Doctor Bashir informs him as he finishes a few scribbles on the page and then tears the paper out, folding it in quarters, placing it beneath the chair. Garak watches him, content to let him finish theatrically to plan. The easy smile that greets him is reward enough for that patience as he notes the light catching the doctor’s tanned skin rather nicely. Doctor Bashir shrugs as his eyes flick back to the pitcher of lemonade. “You see the both of us have just ingested a rather potent truth serum.” 

And Garak knows that he does not quite succeed in hiding the brief tell of his eyes, the brief tightness of his smile. Doctor Bashir takes the pitcher in hand, holding it up smugly, definitely smugly this time. “More lemonade, Garak?”


	14. Ride A Crooked Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drug begins to take effect and the questions begin. But can Garak keep his focus on the mission and not the gorgeous doctor?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A few minute late but this one gave me a bit of fits. Characters not wanting to cooperate but I egged them along. No real warnings here except for a slightly compromised Garak and a lot of long rambling out of him as well. Hopefully nothing's too confusing. Writing from his POV in this state was a bit of a challenge haha. Anyhoo, C&C always welcome and thanks for reading!

Garak is not sure whether or not he wants to wring Doctor Bashir’s rather tempting neck or give him a full human kiss on the mouth for such a beautiful deception; the sadist in him rather wishes to do both at once. He immediately quashes _that_ thought knowing that at this moment he is going to need every bit of his concentration in order to continue with this little dance. Were the implant functioning it would easily compensate for whatever disruptions the drug might cause to his pre frontal cortex, but his hard earned skills are hardly dependent on a piece of technology in his head. _Yes, that has to be it. Remember your training on these types of Federation drugs, Elim. They all work on the same general premise, at least those typically employed by humans, and it is doubtful that without a thorough study of Cardassian biology that the doctor would have reason to use one of the more effective drugs._

That’s not to say that whatever is running through his system doesn’t have its uses against Carsassian biology. He can already find- and if it’s a placebo effect it’s a rather potent one- that from his initial ingestion that there is a slight lack of focus that had allowed that slip in facial expression at the doctor’s revelation of the drug. That self satisfied smirk explained, Garak cannot help but feel a faint admiration, just as he can think of a million self recriminations for being so careless. It occurs to him briefly that the doctor may have unwisely placed himself as a similar disadvantage. Of course, he reasons, there is also an equal possibility that Doctor Bashir can metabolize the drug quickly enough to not feel its effects at all. Garak dare not waste a vital question on that idle wonder; it has no bearing on the actions he needs to take; he can spot a lie a mile away without needing to rely on drugs. Right now it’s his own tongue that’s the problem. Garak knows that he cannot trust his focus to remain constant, particularly depending on what the doctor asks.

It _is_ quite the gamble. Should he dare let that curiosity guide him to try and probe he risks exposing himself in some way to those shrewd eyes. _And it is more than that of course, it’s a matter of professional pride. Are you such an amateur that you cannot work through this, that you would throw your hands up and walk because of a mere handicap? Guls, you may as well march yourself back to Cardassia Prime and have Tain put you down out of mercy._ No, Garak is nowhere near ready to hang up the saddle to quote a quaint Westworld idiom, especially not at the hands of one human doctor. 

“I might ask for a glass of water,” Garak answers with a shrug, “but it seems there are no other beverages to be had.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d trust anything else I might give you to eat or drink, Garak,” Doctor Bashir teases him back, uncrossing that leg, sitting back affecting an air of calm.

“Shall we begin then?” he asks brightly, not pushing, surely knowing if nothing else, that a few more moments delay will only allow the effects to increase in their potency. Garak nods, aware that he cannot rely on any pretense of elaborate plans. In fact, it would be best to follow through in the manner he does best. That is talking- unfiltered, unrestrained conversation. It’s the Cardassian hallmark and as that scrap of a thought pings back and forth in his head, he finds it a funny notion, one that the doctor doubtless will not be prepared for. That only leaves the matter of his own questions and even with his somewhat compromised faculties the first question springs to mind so easily and obviously a child would have asked it.

“Yes, let’s begin, doctor for there is a question that I have been wondering since reading your little bit of dramatic self pitying prose…” He catches a slight frown at the turn of phrase. _Ah, your filters, Elim really, you’d forgotten them so soon, how thoughtless of you._ “I did not mean to give offense, of course, it’s a trait of most humans, most Bajorans to tend towards somewhat of a martyring tone where self reflection is concerned. If I had to speculate, I might suggest that the fanciful belief in higher deities to blame for that inclination. It makes one prone to these roles of fantasy, of battles between good and evil, twisted notions of justice, stories of prophets, virgin births, all sorts of justifications for the most impractical of customs- nothing like the infinite wisdom and pragmatism of the Cardassian State… Gods, baseless faith in the occult, religion as a whole, really, is such a poisonous undertaking, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Is _that_ your question?” Doctor Bashir sits up suddenly looking oddly anxious and it takes a moment for Garak to realize that of course the doctor had orchestrated this entire situation towards one specific goal, and that in fact unless Garak is willfully blind or disobedient to those subtle cues, he’s not likely to accidentally ask incorrectly. _Now that’s reassuring, it’s one less thing you need to worry about in your current state of indisposition._ Yes, the doctor looks quite distraught at his little game going down in such a ridiculous way. Garak doesn’t quite allow himself a laugh- after all, he’s supposed to be playing the unwilling dupe here. He holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“Not at all, doctor, and I’m almost offended that you think I would waste such a golden opportunity on a matter of philosophy, though if you do feel inclined to answer and let us proceed then to a more abstract discussion date, I am always eager to… test out a new partner,” He feels thirsty, he realizes, as again Doctor Bashir looks somewhat pained. 

“Conversation,” Garak clarifies, feeling almost lightheaded. “Conversation partner of course but I… did you _want_ to answer that question?” He continues before Doctor Bashir can answer him. “No, I hardly imagine you would, given all the trouble you’ve gone through to get me here, where _are_ my manners, no, no, the question I have for you is rather…” he trails off going for the pitcher. Doctor Bashir looks almost ready to intercept him. “Of course anyone reading your book would be dying to know just exactly _what_ you are, my dear doctor.”

“You’re asking me then, Garak?” Doctor Bashir presses as if bound and determined to hold them to a rather concrete set of rules. “That’s your first question?” Garak doesn’t look up from pouring, finding that it requires just a touch more concentration that normal.

“Yes, that is my question. I inquire, I officially declare my primary query to be, what _are_ you, doctor? And that’s speaking in the concrete physiological matter of your person, your genetic makeup, not in the sense of what is a man, or any of innumerable abstracts that say a man such a Descartes- ah, you didn’t think I’d know that name did you?- might inquire to and certainly not to your mood were you looking to divert me from the information I seek with a pat one word answer such as “irritated” or thirsty” then I’m afraid I must-“

“Garak!” Doctor Bashir sits forward and as he finishes pouring- that was terribly torpid, wasn’t it?- with a deliberate look up seeing a far more flustered countenance than he had before. He’d be lying- and he’s certainly not particularly capable of doing that with his usual efficiency so he most certainly isn’t- if he said that he didn’t find the sight funny. He can feel the curl at the corner of his mouth far more mischievous than it was some ten minutes ago.

Doctor Bashir takes a deep breath seeming to regain himself.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Garak but it seems there may be an unintended side effect to your biology that I hadn’t intended.” Garak is about to offer his opinion on a doctor who prescribes a drug so thoughtlessly heedless of the consequences when Doctor Bashir holds up a hand quickly. “Yes, I’m sure there’s something you’d like to say to that, but if you will _please_ allow me to answer the question I… I think you may find the information you need.” Garak nods, almost not trusting himself to speak as he drinks more of the lemonade. “Perhaps ah…” Doctor Bashir reaches for the glass. “Perhaps I can do something about the drinks after all.” Garak turns away, leaving that hand to grasp empty air as he primly feigns taking a sip.

“Water. I’ll get some water,” Doctor Bashir instructs him firmly and Garak lowers the glass without having drank any. He watches as the doctor walks to the opposite wall, turning to look as he opens a small door. “Shouldn’t be long if you can be patient. But in the meantime why don’t I start?” Garak sees a small notepad and pencil inside the open door- the entire inside a small cubby space perhaps some sixty centimeters cubed. “There’s really not any point in being coy about it. You may have already guessed in fact so…” He sees the doctor’s glasses carelessly slide down on his face, and he finds himself far more interested in the doctor’s long fingers hastily scribbling something down than what he’s saying. Garak reminds himself to focus, finding it somewhat difficult when the note pad is placed back inside, and Doctor Bashir takes a step over to twin ropes. There’s a slight strain of muscles to pull the one and he really must ask Leeta if that is some magic water bearing box that- “Garak?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear me?” Doctor Bashir turns around looking concerned. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?” Ill? That’s a rather curious thing to ask. _Distracted, somewhat out of sorts but unless I’ve developed some sort of death pall I can’t imagined that I look all that bad. Now you doctor,_ Garak thinks as Doctor Bashir comes and takes a concerned seat beside him. _Now_ _you_ _are looking anything but ill and though it could stand to be warmer in here you might sit there a moment and delight me with some anecdote or another that involves you… putting your hand on my forehead?_ He looks into a look of concern closer than he realized feeling a firm hand to his temple.  “You know I don’t even know if this is an accurate temperature indicator for Cardassians.” There’s a shake of the head that accompanies that statement, a click of the tongue that’s a strangely erotic sound, and though it’s quite pleasant to smell that earthy tincture, Garak recalls that seducing the doctor is _not_ why he’s here.

“You said you’re an… augment?” Garak says out of the blue as that memory, that snippet of Doctor Bashir’s explanation floats back to the forefront of his memories. Right, that’s what the doctor had been saying. An augment, a dated term for those genetically enhanced humans who were said to possess extraordinary strength, speed, intellect, a whole myriad of biological advantages over their kin. They are also, to Garak’s recollection of Federation intelligence natural criminals by their very existence. Which suddenly makes all those minute puzzles and questions make a lot more sense when viewed in that context: his ability to move around Garak undetected, his reflexes, his ability to process such complex code in an instant. He’s certain there must be a far greater list than even that and yet he wonders at that strange look, that compulsion he felt when looking into the Doctor’s eyes on those few occasions. But right now, he needs to focus his attention on the answer rather than the speculation and that’s quite a bit more difficult with the doctor half breathing down his neck.

“Yes. That’s the technical term, I don’t care to repeat all the other names,” he says looking faintly pained, “but it all comes down to the same thing in the end. I’m a man who by all rights shouldn’t exist as far as the Federation is concerned. You’ve read the book of course so you can only imagine that the... consequences of my lineage are a little more than a few years hard labor.” Garak notices that the doctor’s eyes dart towards the glass still in his hand. “I won’t bore you with the details of the Eugenics Wars but suffice it to say they’ve good reason for their policies. Well... it’s easy to say that when you haven’t spent your entire life looking over your shoulder for...” Doctor Bashir stops himself. “...things. I’d almost rather you didn’t ask what things either.”

“The Hunters,” Garak answers automatically with a discreet sideways study as Doctor Bashir seems in a blink to have moved closer. He can’t be sure if that’s in fact what’s happened or if his awareness has been too compromised to notice of shift of the cushion. He’s almost afraid if he focuses too much on that one bit of nonsense he’ll miss something far more important. 

_No... no I can feel his leg, I can feel that fabric close enough that it brushes... yes there... when he folds his leg beneath him, he gets comfortable, he shifts, I know he’s doing it._ That’s all the he knows is going on, again that hyper focus flitting to Doctor Bashir’s every move until he is aware of the respirations, of the slight slow of them. The drug it seems, might almost have its uses were he able to more consciously control the things his mind chooses to focus on. But now, even as Doctor Bashir talks- presumably of those who hunt Augments for profit and sport- Garak cannot bring himself to an awareness of the conversation, but instead to the slight shift in temperature. There’s a slight radiant body heat he can feel move closer, subtly of course and there is nothing he thinks in the doctor’s tone to indicate anything out of sorts. Still, he can feel the change in air as an arm moves behind him, dully aware as he is that he’s gone back to blankly staring at that painting on the wall once more.

There is a laconic impulse to lazily turn his head, to turn his body and see what all the motion is about but somehow the accent of the ribbon catches his eye until he fixates on it so clearly that he doesn’t so much as flinch when he detects Doctor Bashir’s arm cross in front of him, a hand over his own that holds the glass. Garak hadn’t noticed before that there is the faint reflection of the dancer’s face elsewhere in the crowd, a subtle pattern of the outline of those Trill features and... _And I can sense you, Doctor. Certainly, I don’t know why but right now I can feel you moving I can..._ He can feel it, he realizes dumbly, because the doctor is half on top of him trying his best not to be as he extracts the glass and places it on the table. Garak catches sight of the top of his head moving back, or at least starting to, his eyes at last dropping back to what should be the subject of his whimsical attention. It’s then Garak notices that he’s stopped moving and that by some impulse his hand has neatly trapped Doctor Bashir’s to the arm of sofa, leaving him in the odd position half stretched across his lap.

He looks down as Doctor Bashir looks just slightly up, their faces inches apart.

“You know doctor,” he says casually, not feeling any resistance to his grip. “For an infamous augment, I seem to have caught you rather easily.” And he isn’t sure why, but he catches then a brilliant, little smile marking that sensuous looking mouth as the doctor looks at him from over those spectacles, hair a seemingly artful mess. Garak thinks that is the most dangerous expression that he’s seen on that face to date. 

“Are you so sure about that, Garak?” That question is followed by an almost nervous dart of a tongue, just a teasing little flicker moistening that terribly tempting mouth. “I think _you’re_ the one who’s about to be caught.”


	15. Against A Crooked Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension grows between Garak and Doctor Bashir as their back and forth game goes deeper. Who will win this one? Garak isn't so sure it'll be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made it under the wire to wrap up this little scene. I'm excited that soon we'll be seeing some other characters and getting to a great idea I've had brewing for a while with this. in the meantime I get to be a bit mean to Garak and keep some of the mystery going. No real warnings here. Thank you everyone reading and C&C is always welcome!

“Am I? Perhaps you are unaware of your current position, doctor.” Garak, of course, is anything but unaware at this moment. His attention has been drawn like a darting insect amongst a bed of bright foliage back and forth between a multitude of heady scents, and now he finds himself with one rather enticing one, some potent pheromonal pollen pervading his olfactory senses. He can feel a mirthful flutter at that mental alliteration, nearly sidetracked into some mental nonsense word challenge to see just how far he can take that rather pointless play of… _Oh stop, it, already. You’re letting this lack of focus get frightfully out of hand and if you’re not careful you’re going to find yourself in an indefensible position._ He’s been inexcusably sloppy these past several minutes, and ironically enough it’s only the rather distracting picture that the doctor presents so close to him, body turned, chest nearly pressed to his that brings his focus back to razor sharp clarity.

He sees Doctor Bashir look to be contemplating a particular answer to that query as his wrist rotates around, fingers awkwardly closing over Garak’s light stroking the side of his hand. Garak wonders if the game isn’t then one of seductive power play or more of that attempt at hypnotic push. He has his answer when Doctor Bashir doesn’t look him in the eyes, but passes that hazel gaze down, making a thoughtful study of Garak’s mouth.

“Are you… unaware of my current position, Garak?” _Anything but, doctor, I promise you that. I would almost think that this was your goal but then why do I feel as if I’m missing something terribly important? Why is it that I can still detect those slight tells that indicate you’re not entirely comfortably with this seductive pretense?_ He feels a slight press of Doctor Bashir’s knee just a touch to the side of his leg bringing that awareness of it closeness to bear, disrupting his thoughts. Garak smiles back- not quite blankly- in response.

“I’m aware that I have two more questions for you doctor, and I’m uncertain as to how I’m to proceed with you so rather familiarly draped over my lap.” He blinks slowly, mind swimming towards some other diversion but he carefully, slowly fixates on a point, on a rather small thread hanging off the collar of Doctor Bashir’s white shirt. _White. Blank. Clarity. Focus. Right. That’s it. Remember everything you’ve been taught about subverting these types of chemical agents._

“You didn’t seem to have any trouble focusing that night with Jadzia.” That answer comes quickly, smartly, the end of it just a bit too clipped to quite match the drop in the doctor’s volume. it catches his attention immediately, strangely enough. _Yes, a sensual whisper to cover that bit of anger, ohh, if there is nothing better to keep the mind on point it is that._ Garak feels those caressing fingers stop when the doctor speaks and he picks that motion back up, thumb a small sensual circle around his wrist. He feels a slight jump beneath and lets that smile grow.

“Ah but that is where you are wrong, my dear doctor, for I was in fact _quite_ distracted.” Tension, alertness, a fervent darting of the eyes to the side, it seems that his powers of observation have not left him hanging as he thought they had- curious. “I could see you clearly, you know. A trick of the spy trade.” The admission is a risk, but Garak deems it worthwhile when Doctor Bashir’s head snaps just a few centimeters higher. Those eyes widen not with that pitiable farce of calculation, but with shock. _So it would seem that you hadn’t anticipated that admission; exactly as I figured_. _And if I continue to figure correctly, doctor, by the end of this evening you won’t know what to believe about me. Yes, always keep them guessing, Elim, that’s always been your greatest strength._

“Oh you didn’t know that did you? Ah, we spies, we cutthroats, we… nefarious assassins stalking the shadows, we always keep a careful watch on those watching us, and I assure you doctor, the sight of you, watching me was a far greater distraction than you realize.” And he watches closely as Doctor Bashir wriggles and tests his grip almost nervously, eyes drawn to the distraction of Garak’s grip. That excites him far more than it ought to, he observes. _It is a danger to grow too close to another of them, you know. You should really let the doctor and his ragtag group of defenders to their own devices, continue laying low, and finish what you’ve set out to accomplish._ Garak sees a slight flex of Doctor Bashir’s hand, holding back some hidden strength. No, there’s no way he could possibly do that. 

“Look at me, doctor,” he whispers, not having any mental parlor tricks to call upon but possessing something far greater in his own arsenal. Doctor Bashir obeys, and Garak becomes acutely aware of his other hand making itself known once more, nails lightly dragging down from the back of the sofa to let a palm rest on the cushion right next to him. He makes a note of the time it took for the muscles to start to fatigue. It was far longer than he thinks it should have been. “Yes, that’s better.”

“Garak-” a touch breathless, a curl of those fingers near Garak’s hip a faint skipping stone making nothin but a tiny ripple of sensation but it is there nonetheless. “I saw you, doctor,” he hushes, not looking Doctor Bashir in the eyes, but drawing his focus to that mouth so intently it forces an unconscious lick of lips. He takes that cue to continue. “I saw you, doctor,” he repeats, “such a sight, on your knees, watching, panting, and I couldn’t help but wonder for who it was you were so fervently fixated but now that I have you here all to myself, the lingering scent of Miss Dax’s perfume around us, I cannot help but feel that I have my answer to that question.”

“And… what answer would that be?” Doctor Bashir answers, without a single hint of contrivance. No, it is as guileless as that further scratch of nails on the fabric, the tension palpable. There is a moment where he leans in, where Garak feels that hand slip through his grasp not with some overpowering strength but a sly, slippery little wriggle. Only he doesn’t draw back, keeping that same intimate space between them, a brief half start to that tilt of his head that tells Garak while the statement might have been without forethought the following action is definitely chock full of calculation. _Ah, but that doesn’t mean that ulterior is utterly lacking in desire, Elim. No, I can smell it, doctor, that sweet scent of arousal just barely beginning to bloom. I can practically taste that heat on you._ _I can see the faint dilation of your pupils, the shrinking band of green gold around, I could feel that increase flutter of our pulse before you escaped me._  

“The answer?” Garak teases him back sensing with that faint parting of lips, that the contact which Doctor Bashir seeks goes past the slow sensual Cardassian dance of gustatory pleasure. No, he senses a desire for that base mash of mouth to mouth human lip pressing, perhaps inclusive of tongue, teeth even. He usually finds such a thought off putting, but there is a certain smell, a certain taste that he detects off that warm breath as Doctor Bashir asks softly, “Garak?” that makes him want to seal their mouths messily in just that manner. 

“Did you forget, Doctor,” he chides him voice thick and heavy, “that you do not get to ask any questions until I’m… finished with you.”

“Then finish me,” Doctor Bashir challenges, tense but far too eager. Even so, Garak leans in, knowing at the heart, that whatever might pass between them, whatever heat might sizzle and crackle electrodes humming right now that at this time- in this instant- it is far more a ploy than even his previous encounter with Jadzia, but he finds he cannot stop himself from-

From the ring of an insidious bell that he has an irrational urge to rip from the wall; Garak wonders if that violent impulse is some side effect of the drug or an outcropping of his impatience to… _Yes for another experience of that physical contact, that intimacy that you’ve been lacking for so long. Such an unprofessional lack of impulse control you’ve expressed since coming here you ought to be thankful you’re not being audited._ He sighs as Doctor Bashir practically jumps out of his skin- nearly falling on the floor, in fact. Garak sits back on the couch, head lolling back onto the top of the low cushion suppressing a completely unprofessional groan of frustration. He shuts his eyes, letting himself embrace a short meditative state to recenter, refocus the swirl of color that appears behind his eyelids as thought after thought rushes to his immediate consciousness. It is almost overwhelming, and he’s thankful for that distraction while he sorts and redirects his purpose towards those last two questions, and then whatever Doctor Bashir may then inquire of him.

“I suppose you’re wondering as to the nature of my… enhancements,” Doctor Bashir offers, bustling around him, the steps, the clang of silver speaking to his likely changing the lemonade for water of some other innocuous liquid. Garak runs his tongue around the dryness of his mouth looking forward to it as he digests that not so subtle suggestion. _Really, Elim, you’re failing so badly at this you’re needing help just getting to where he wants you to be, and where you know you need to go. Yes, let him hold your hand while you’re at it._ But the water should help. Surely Doctor Bashir knows this, but there’s a brief flash of concern that he reads before the doctor takes a seat, back on the chair to Garak’s disappointment. _Clearly whatever advantage he thinks to take in this is at odds with his sense of ethics._ It makes Garak wonder if he shouldn’t overplay his handicap- if that won’t be enough to throw the doctor’s plans to a tailspin.

He funnels that though carefully placed, so as not to misplace, as he takes a glass of cold ice water.

“It seems you really have read my mind, doctor,” Garak agrees with a bit of exaggerated wonder that causes an eye roll in return. It’s playful however, relaxed, and whatever aborted attempt at seduction he played has seemed to relax him and put him at ease. _It seems that the bell may have saved him from taking things farther than he would have liked. But up and til then you have to admit it was all his game. Of course he thinks he’s back in control. Even a fool could see how ridiculously you were panting over him. And now he thinks the advantage is his; it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, you know as well as any it’s all about perception. And what he perceives now is the poor hunted Cardassian, desperate for any sort of warmth, any intimacy, all too eager to fall into bed with any attractive face who shows him the slightest crumb of affection._ It is, admittedly, not the effect he was seeking but he can certainly use that to his advantage as well. Of course he can. 

“If I may be frank, doctor, while I have been absolutely burning with professional curiosity I feel it only fair to let you know that I can ascertain at least one of them with complete certainty,” he declares, the water definitely easing his thirst and helping his drifting thoughts. 

“Oh? Well I’m all ears.” The doctor takes a drink himself. Garak is completely sure that if the drug ever was in his system if won’t be for too long.He notices that his own focus is returning faster than he would’ve thought and he can only hypothesize the cause is either a weak dilution or in fact… _“I’ve already caught you…”_ Doctor Bashir’s words come back to him- rather they slam into him an unpleasant kick to the gut as he comes into full focus- a focus that he’s possessed this entire time. He’s careful to hide any reaction as that scene replays word for word, that smug little grin that never left his face even after Garak took over with nothing more than playful banter dismissing the statement entirely. He hides a grin behind that glass far too amused to even be properly angry with himself for falling for such a novice trick. 

_They always talk, don’t they? The amateurs, the novices, they always boast. The ego cannot help but want to bring itself to the forefront, show off its brilliance, make you bow before such cleverness. Oh, but not clever enough never clever enough. Perhaps this time there was almost a moment but… But there were enough tells from him, enough clues that… Oh yes, Elim, he was practically screaming at you with all of his body language that there was something in your drink. The man who by his own written admission has deflected any number of likely skilled bounty hunters suddenly is so bad at hiding those little tells from you. Oh no, he read the diary as he should and he played right to your arrogance. Yes, of course the master spy would see these things because he is the master. What was that human saying Jadzia taught you while arranging this meeting? pride cometh before the fall... yes, beautiful foreshadowing, a little taunt for this evening. Clever. Too clever, both of you. Yes, you are correct, doctor, I am in fact caught. But as to whether or not I reveal that to you. We’ll see if you figure it out on your own._

He doesn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt then, when he declares straight faced, a long sweep of his eyes up Doctor Bashir’s body, 

“Surely they’ve gifted you with some ultra sexual allure to make you completely irresistible to all those you choose to seduce.” He sets the glass down as Doctor Bashir nearly drops his, a swallow down the wrong pipe sending him into a red faced fit of coughs that nearly coughs the spectacles off his face. The fact that he doesn’t drop the glass- or rather starts to but stops without overcorrecting, his hand still steady, reveals that there’s likely a reflex enhancement. He also made sure to drop his volume lower, softer, with each spoken word that was almost unnoticed by Doctor Bashir. _So we can assume hearing as well. Eyes, I have no doubt or else he wouldn’t hide them behind those spectacles, and now to ascertain if his little mental tricks, if his little tests of control, if his ability to mask himself are the result of augmentations or merely years of practice._

Garak himself knows a handful of operatives with comparable skill sets so that he does not assume. He sits back, affecting an interest to a shelf behind Doctor Bashir, reading the titles of the books. A fascinating assortment, he catches sight of a collection by Iloja of Prim, naturally, along with some other assorted human, and a surprising number of Klingon epics as well. He decides against inquiring as to the doctor’s wellbeing- that would only require a further lengthy tangent and he’s saving that for a much better use of his time. The coughing continues long enough for him to take another drink of water, making his own mental wager as to the questions that Doctor Bashir might ask him in return. They all of course are based on the supposition that the doctor believed every word he read to be true and there is some strange instinct that flares up inside him, carefully bred from his years of service that make him question that certainty. 

“I must say, you have a way of surprising a man,” Doctor Bashir says at last, still sounding breathless and strained.” Garak remains staring at the books on the shelf and hears a poorly hidden sigh. Yes, the doctor still seems to think his little mental placebo to be fast at work. Garak is almost tempted to push his patience and see if he can get the doctor aggrieved enough to come out with the truth but… But there was a certain heat, a certain fire, that steers him away from that. _No, let’s see, Doctor, just how strong your powers of observation in fact are. Let’s see then if_ _your_ _arrogance will lead you to believe that your suggestion is in effect even when the signs seems have worn off._ The fact that his lack of loquaciousness has been seemingly written off in that little flirtatious dance does not bode well for the doctor in that exercise. _Yes, you do still have much to learn after all, for a man with your gifs, with your experience, there is still so much potential to be unlocked._

Garak takes another drink.

“Then you may be surprised to know that while I definitely consider that second question a correct guess on your part, my dear, I already have all the answers I need.” He watches those eyes narrow faintly as he primly sets the glass down. There’s a sharpness there that immediately resurfaces almost blended with a look of quickly hidden anxiety. _Not so unobservant after all._

“There’s no possible way you could know that.”

“There is no such thing as impossible, doctor, I’m sure your own rather unconventional life is testament to that. No, I believe that all things are possible, particularly with the proper motivation.” There’s an almost sullen cross of his arms as Doctor Bashir sits back, boyish in that gesture. 

“And what motivation might that be?”

“I already told you doctor,” Garak scolds him unable to hide just a hint of smug reproach, “it’s not yet your turn to ask the questions.”

“Then why don’t we get to the last one of yours so that it will be.”

“You know, I’ve heard it said, that a good doctor is never short on patients,” Garak quips, not allowing anything but pure innocence on his face when the doctor sits of suddenly at that admittedly awful pun. But Garak does not allow for whatever indignant protest he may be wanting to make. Instead his face is all business when he himself leans in, expression allowing some of that hard earned darkness to fall from the shadows of the oil lamp on the sofa table behind them. “But I’ve decided, that your patience so far deserves a reward, and that reward is this. I’ll give you my best game, my dear, and I won’t ask the question that I’ve decided you’ve written there and lead me to with your trail of literary breadcrumbs, but rather to ask the question that I’ve been dying to know more than anything else.”

And it is that declaration that he sees cause those hands to clasp in front, between his knees almost like a prayer as Doctor Bashir looks at him, likely summoning every ounce of whatever psychological manipulation he can muster to sway him. No, Garak has been swayed far too much this evening and he’s going to let himself savor this moment while those hands clasp tight and the doctor’s eyes meet his beautifully angry.

“And what question is that, Garak?” Tight, clipped, impotent fury barely contained in that lush mouth hiding half grit teeth. And people wonder why he smiles so much. Garak feels it would be rude to do anything but as he asks simply,

“Of course, you’re expecting me to make some crude inquiry as to how many you’ve killed or some violent obscenity that’s always fascinated you humans. But no, Doctor, I’ve as little interest in that as I do with the clandestine Mr. Sloan that you reference. My interest is more of a... personal nature if you will. I simply wish to know how many times you’ve watched me in my room.”

He waits for another sharp intake of breath, for any indicator of surprise but instead he finds none. Instead he watches as Doctor Bashir slowly bends, hands reaching down to the crumpled paper, his head, his hair obscuring what Garak can see just long enough for him to remember that with enhanced reflexes Doctor Bashir is quite likely a master of sleight of hand. Even so, Garak reasons, there’s no possible way that he could do more than a switch of papers and that question is _not_ on any page that he should hold in his possession. _“There is no such thing as impossible, Doctor.” Isn’t that what you just said Elim?_ He finds that thought strangely thrilling as he watches the paper unfold, plain as day, Doctor Bashir’s face unreadable as he holds it out for Garak to read. 

And there they are the three questions written one after the other right to that final query, _“How many times have you watched me?”_ It does not specify as he did in his room, but Garak does not protest that point as Doctor Bashir hands him the paper slowly, not looking nearly as satisfied as he should- doubtless because his little voyeurism has been exposed- as he takes a deep breath. He stares at the coffee table, at the rug, at some indeterminate point that Garak cannot make out, a long silence passing before he answers. It’s a soft confession, but even at its near hush, Garak doesn’t miss it, his own eyes going wide in surprise as he hears those words, as Doctor Bashir looks head hard, those hands clasped like a prayer between his legs.

“Every night,” he says lips barely moving to those sounds, and it is that answer, that makes Garak realizes just why he affected that sudden reticence. _Every night..._ the words replay rapidly and he cannot almost believe them to be true if the doctor refers to far more than just- “Every night since you arrived,.”

It’s Garak’s turn for surprise as Doctor Bashir slowly raises his head, eyes locking to his in some moment that Garak cannot even hope to describe. He himself is at an odd blank, a strange loss for words as that silence stretches that answer far beyond what he’d ever imagined. There are of course several follow ups, several demands for answers that he knows he cannot now ask as Doctor Bashir maintains that silence. That silence, of course, nothing but an eternity encapsulated into seconds at beast before Garak breaks it soberly.

“I believe then, doctor, it is your turn,” he says that reminder a hesitant hedge. And he thinks he sees a deep breath to some riveting revelation but just as the bell, just as Kira those weeks ago in Rom’s, just as too many damn “coincidences” for Garak to stand, there’s a loud knock at the door followed by Odo’s harsh voice.

“Doctor?! I’m sorry for the interruption, but you’re needed immediately at the mine. There’s been an accident and they’re calling all medical personnel from here to Chapparal and points west of the mountain.”

“Dear God, that many?!” Doctor Bashir is on his feet in an instant, a flurry of action as he runs for the door, nearly jumping over Garak in the process. “I’m coming, now, I’m there, tell me Jabara is back on world or else we’re going to have a disaster before Dr. Zimmerman can come from-” Garak doesn’t need to turn his head as that voice trails off following the opening of the lock, the door, Garak finding himself alone in Jadzia’s room. He has no doubt of her assured swift return- if she was ever more than a few feet to begin with- but it does give him an opportunity...

Garak’s eyes catch sight once more of a discarded notebook and he laughs out loud, taking it from the chair.

“Oh, doctor, doctor, when will you ever learn your lesson about these precious books of yours?” He doesn’t even make it to a step before he hears the sound of another door- this, the closet across from her bed- causing him to turn. Jadzia Dax strides sassily out wearing nothing but a thin strapped green nightgown, bare feet crossing the distance between them on the hard wood as she holds out a hand. 

“And when will you learn, Garak, not to take things that don’t belong to you?” 


	16. Big Jake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak finally has a space to rent for his shop. If only things were that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting to one of the plots I've been dying to get to since the beginning. We finally get to see Jake, and Nog in a fashion. But don't think it'll be as simple as all that. No warnings here except for mention of offscreen minor character death. Thanks to everyone reading! C&C always welcome- I try to keep track of all plot points carefully but you never know.

“Noh-Jay Consortium,” Garak reads the words etched into the dark metal on the sign above the counter out loud. “Was this the main branch of the...” he searches for the word uncertain of which would be proper in this context. The man next to him takes a step forward, a wistful sigh interrupting that mental index of his current Federation Standard vocabulary. The man, Jake Sisko, he recalls during their brief introduction is tall- taller than he in any case- yet the smile that appears on his face is so childlike in its innocent recall it somehow erodes that difference in their heights. He appears to be caught up in some fond remembrance as he reads those words to himself and, given the circumstances of their current acquaintance, Garak allows him whatever time he needs before speaking. Jake has arms crossed, a fond shake of his head appearing before he offers an explanation.

“If Nog had his way then maybe... You know, I don’t know. That’s what Ferengi are supposed to do, he’d say. Profit, y’know? But, we never made it out of this building. It’s probably for the best that we went our separate ways. He was mad... that I wanted out, that I didn’t want to keep going when we were doing so well but when you look back you realize things happen the way they’re supposed to. That’s what dad says, anyway. He’s always been a lot more grounded than me.”

“Of course,” Garak offers cautiously as he takes a few steps surveying the counter and the space behind. There is definitely ample space for his purposes. The sign will have to come down but as he shoots another discreet glance to Jake, still looking at it half misty he supposes that it can wait until he’s ready to open the shop.

The building came a few days ago, a boon from the State one might say in its affordability and utility. He has not let himself dwell overly long on the circumstances surrounding his rental of the property though those circumstances have seemed to find a way to shove themselves intrusively under his nose at every turn. Unpleasant business, disputed space. That’s one reason of many that he’s always been thankful to have his feet firmly planted on a station or a planet for his assignments. There are far too many variables when dealing with travel. He’d started to say so to Leeta when it became readily apparent that his pragmatism was not particularly welcome in this time of grieving. Or rather it would be grieving if it weren’t for her stubborn insistence that the man in question, Nog, was alive and going to be quite cross with all of them upon his return. He chose to remain silent on his particular view of misplaced optimism. Especially in light of their relationship hinging entirely on her willful blindness to his true identity.

_Ah, but now this shop, whether by ill gotten gains or not will be the perfect location to begin._ Quark had insisted that in spite of his newfound status as landlord that the building could not possibly be shown without prior purchase and the location and price left Garak desperate enough to agree to that completely obscene demand. But looking around at the shelves lining the walls and the carefully polished wooden display tables in the center of the main shop room, he cannot help but feel that luck has uncharacteristically been with him in this endeavor. By his recall of the floor plan he was shown there should be a good work room in the back previously used for storage, and a secondary store room off there. That is also not counting the basement and upstairs which could be used to generate extra rental revenue- per Quark’s suggestion, no doubt with the thought that he might be able to raise the rent should that occur- or however else he saw fit.

In fact, Garak is quite eager to view the remainder of the building, but he is patient enough to allow his unusually insistent tour guide another moment to collect his bearings.

“I do hope you’ll forgive my presumptuousness but if this is too difficult for you, Mr. Sisko then I can-“

“Jake,” he cuts in with a quick turn of his head. It almost seems as if he’s afraid Garak will go wandering off without him. “It’s fine I mean. Just call me Jake. I don’t even think Dad goes by Mr. Sisko yet and he’s a lot older than I am.” Jake forces a smile as he turns from that sign to the door leading to the back. “Grandpa’s the only one that gets a “Mr.” in the Siscko family.” He motions for Garak to follow him, taking out a small ring of metal keys. “These aren’t the new locks. Nog swore these old lever locks were the best. I don’t think Quark will mind you changing them though. Extra security raises the value of the building, right?” The key turns easily, the door swinging open without a hint of sound, the hinges clearly being freshly oiled. It makes him wonder who’s been maintaining the property so well though he has a rather strong hunch.

“Will your uncle be okay?” Garak inquires politely as they step through the doorway to another large empty space. He notes again the floor is freshly waxed and the windows polishes without a speck of dust. 

“He’s only “uncle” Quark when he thinks it’ll get him something. But he’ll be fine. Dr. Bashir says there isn’t any lasting damage.” 

“I’m sure your aunt is beside herself with guilt,” Garak offers as Jake reads off the measurements of the room. There is a hint of a smile- a far more genuine one- at that statement. Garak was quite impressed in retrospect at the rather effective method Leeta had employed in what she called “boxing the greedy s.o.b.’s ear” for profiting off of Nog’s seeming death. The shrill scream that followed was far less so but the spectacle was at least a welcome break in the monotony of the transaction up until that point. Several pages of Westworld legalese painstakingly explained by Jadzia had explained what should have been summarized with a few short sentences. Nog was dead, and Quark was left the main shareholder in the Noh-Jay Consortium having bought Jake’s shares some years prior.

That had then left him with several questions still to be answered and hardly touched upon in the lease. Such as why this property has sat meticulously upkept yet never rented when it is clear neither party has any inclination to make use of the space. That is then followed by this tour which given the lack of furnishings or other exotic architecture has no real purpose other than a nostalgic jaunt down memory lane, as it were, and finally, the low starting lease which Mr. Nog’s final wishes clearly laid out much to his uncle chagrin. _Really, Elim, it seems that you cannot help but find yourself embroiled in one strange bout of intrigue after another in this seemingly innocuous town. Certainly Tain could not have planned this better if he tried and I’m beginning to wonder if this finally mercy as he calls it isn’t far more clearly planned out than he let on._ But then again this final gauntlet to regain the man’s favor would hardly be the iron will test he was promised if it were as deceptively easy as-

“I need to show you a few things upstairs.” Jake’s voice interrupts his automatic, overly interested glance into the secondary store room which he decides will be perfect for keeping his supplies. Garak shuts the door with a nod as he sees Jake turn towards a straight narrow staircase. He sees eyes linger on him a moment longer than they ought to, searching, a swallow aborting speech as if there is more to be said before Jake practically jogs up the steps, long legs leaving Garak no inclination to try and match his pace. He isn’t sure the reason for the hurried step but he does on second thought almost decide to match it as he feels those dark paneled walls start to close in on him. His grip on the rail is perhaps tighter than it ought to be when he reaches the top. “Do you have a supplier?” Jake asks suddenly, looking down the hall to a closed door at the end. Garak notes two doors on the left and two on the right.

“I have a several places I was able to locate in the directory that I’ve written to though I must confess I’m uncertain as to the fair market value of a lot of the textiles that will need to be imported. From what I can tell, your planet has quite a thriving home grown textile industry and while I’ve been assured that anything too exotic won’t move well here I can’t help but think that it’s just a matter of... marketing.” He sees Jake still surveying the doors before opening the first one on the left. 

“I have a few contacts I can put you in touch with,” Jake says as he reveals another large yet predictable empty room. “When we were younger we tried out hand at trading. Importing, exporting, you name it we bought it and sold it.” He trails off leaning against a wall, daylight streaming in nicely making a warm spot that Garak moves to. “I remember one time we were trying to unload all these self sealing stem bolts. No one knew what they were for, what they were worth, or anything. We just got them from a trade that Nog made on a hunch.” Jake laughs. “Even Mr. O’Brien didn’t know what they were used for. But in the end we got ten bars of latinum for them. Nog said that was double hie entire life savings.”

“And he... also left the business?” Garak asks wondering why a Ferengi would leave such a clearly lucrative enterprise behind. Jake nods as he shows him a small closet and bathroom.

“He wanted to be in Starfleet.”

“Starfleet? A Ferengi?” he asks somewhat incredulously as he eyes the bathtub and dreams of a hot soak without a care for other patrons. His room has a toilet and a sink and just enough space to turn around. _Yes, by all means, Elim leave the relative security of your current quarters so you can take a bath. Perhaps you should be retiring after all._ Of course he is well aware given who he is that retiring for him take the same form as sending a well loved ship to the nearest sun to burn in a grand conflagration honoring its service except he imagines it will somehow manage to be far more painful that that. no, with the current situation.

_With the current situation perhaps you ought to spend more time asking question, observing, planning, and less time daydreaming of baths and doctors and dalliances with exotic aliens._ He redirects his attention, thankful that in spite of his reverie he recalls every word spoken about the young Ferengi and his desire to serve in Starfleet. That narrative firmly in play he follows Jake to the next room, finding it to much the same as the last.

“You said the mayor... your father I mean was a Captain in Starfleet?” That is the part in all the cloying sentimentality that catches his attention. He now counts three former Starfleet officers amongst the permanent residents in Indigo and he has a sneaking suspicion there are still more to come. Jake tempts him with a glimpse of a second bathtub as he nods.

“Before coming here he was... yeah. He ah... you know, I like to tell stories, I mean I _am_ a writer but that one... that’s really his story to tell.” Which leaves Garak with a polite pasted on smile as he nods- what else is there to say to that, after all- and continues the same routine for the next two rooms.

It comes to him then as they near that final door at the end, the master suite if he had to venture a guess, where he’s heard the name Jake Sisko before.

“You’re a writer,” Garak says suddenly, brilliantly. 

“I like to think so,” Jake quips stopping to look at him. There’s a blooming look on his face, the daring to hope face of the starving artist meeting one who might in fact know his name for the work he’s done. And indeed, Garak realizes he had. “Have you... read any of my books?” The question is asked so hopefully, it makes Garak annoyed with himself to be so pleased about telling the truth. But it is in fact the truth and quite an unusual one at that.

“I’ve read Come On, Danger, as a matter of fact. It’s a quite popular book on Cardassia Prime amongst fans of the old Parmalat novels. I can’t say I’m familiar with your other work. I don’t know that the rest have been translated. I must say it’s quite unusual for a human to be so familiar with Cardassian culture and history. There are those critics who claim that the, I don’t believe it’s necessary to repeats such clearly ignorant epithets, fans of the old novels are merely seeking to find commonality in the most banal of things but the parallels and the intent are unmistakable.”

“Yes!” Jakes bobs his head excitedly. “Yes that’s it! I had no idea it would be so well received in Cardassian Space. Nog told me the response in the Federation was lukewarm at best but I’d received royalties from my publisher from _somewhere_ but oh man that’s fantastic! What was your favorite part? Was it the scene where Roxanne puts on the red light? I thought of the symbolism of the emblem when I wrote that, you know.”

“Ah, yes, that’s such a human scene. The humanity shows in so many parts it’s almost a disappointment to the genius of the narrative as a whole. You clearly have such a deep understanding of Cardassian society in Parmalat’s time I really think chapter three especially would have benefitted from a different editor. No, I rather enjoyed Matthew’s discovery of the tin box behind the bleeding portrait. There were some references that escaped me at the time. The entire world seemed so fanciful, such speculative fiction but coming here I can see it’s a quite clever mash up of the two worlds. I can’t imagine you see many Cardassians here to be able to write such a provocative tale.”

“It was actually Mr. O’Brien who got me interested in Cardassian culture. I mean in a weird way, yeah. It’s no secret he doesn’t like Cardassians but when he told me about the massacre on Setlik Two and the battle he was in, I wanted to get to know, to understand who these people were that he kept calling the enemy.” 

“You mean Setlik Three,” Garak corrects him pointedly supposing that the bodies in space much seem much in the same to those born on this planet. Jake shakes his head.

“No, Setlik Two. I’ve heard the story a few times. It’s definitely Setlik Two.” To that Garak almost tells him that he’s probably not remembering it correctly but there’s something about that insistence that gives him pause. That makes no sense, of course. Setlik Two was never the site of any major battles and being in Starfleet O’Brien would have no cause to conflate the two even if he were making the entire story of his involvement up. He files that information away carefully, not under urgent but of things of interest to ask Doctor Bashir about when they next meet.

Garak isn’t quite sure when that will be as the casualties and injuries from the accident have kept him quite busy but given the circumstances of their last meeting he’s decided to make good use of this time move head with his own plans. He doesn’t like leaving such a loose end untied, especially a loose end that confessed to spying on him for the last few months, but that matter has been neatly resolved with a block over the lens behind the mirror. No, he’s sure when there is time the doctor will be back to collect on his prize and he considers _this_ time it will be under Garak’s terms. 

“Yes, forgive me, that system had been such a hotbed of military action during the war I must have confused them myself. And we seem to have fallen off the path in our tour.” Garak indicates the final door which they stand in front of unopened. Jake’s expression takes on a far more serious cast as looks at Garak, not sparing it a glance.

“I’m sorry that ‘uncle Quark’ didn’t tell you, Mr. Garak, but this door can’t be opened under any circumstance.”

He hands Garak the ring of keys, an air of finality passing between them. Garak chooses wisely not to contest that assertion, his memory bringing to mind vividly Quark’s seeming offhanded remark about Cardassians being pleasantly lacking in natural curiosity. Knowing as he takes the ring the key to that door won’t be on them, Garak nods with equal solemnity as he turns, showing that he doesn’t consider it worth a second thought.

“You have my word.”


	17. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tangle web is woven by a character thought to be dead. Poor Garak may end up with more than he bargained for!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit after my usual Sunday deadline but let's pretend it's Central Time and not Eastern here. We get into more goofy plot stuff. I took some liberties with the existing timeline being that this is an imperfect parallel universe. I did the same for Platonius as well so my apologies if any of these divergences rub canon purists the wrong way. I had fun with this, it was an interesting what if regarding Nog's character development in this universe so here's hoping it worked. Thank you all who've stuck it out this long, there's still a crapton more to come. C&C is always welcome!

The first thing she does when she sees him is slap his face. The second is a near suffocating hug as she breathes hard and deep. He fingers dig into his back hard, her arms shaking. 

“Moogie-”

“Don’t you dare ‘Moogie’ me.” She doesn’t easily let him go but he allows her to hold on tightly for as long as she needs. He shifts from one foot to the other as her breathing calms down, and he starts again with a softer, more chastened tone.

“Moogie...” He trails that entreaty off, letting her pick up the conversation as she lets go of him and stands up straight. She is still a few inches taller than he is and she brings every bit of that height to a maternal bear when she crosses her arms, a deep frown on her face.

It is late. The chime of one has only recently gone off from the hanging wall clock. The door was opened a hesitant crack at first, only to be practically thrown into the wall pocket when the identity of the man on the other side was revealed. He was not ushered inside, but rather yanked violently by the long sleeve of the thick poncho, no sound uttered beyond that slap until the few spoken words. The Ferengi looks down at his feet for a moment unable to look at her directly. There is another awkward shuffle that follows as he clasps his hands behind his back, at ease, the beginning of a debriefing for a senior officer. His eyes still track the floor, a small twitch the only sign of his lingering nerves. He does not hide the wince when she speaks again, her feet crossing closer to him.

“I thought you were dead,” is the simply spoken rebuke that is devoid of tears, but not of suffering, not of anger. 

He again doesn’t answer her right away, taking the time to clear his throat uncomfortably, and making a study of the wooden slats of the floor.

“That was the plan. That _had_ to be the plan,” he corrects as he looks at her bare feet. There is further explanation, but he does not offer it immediately until there is a sigh followed by the drop of clothing on the floor. It is only with that pile appearing, a thin silky ball of fabric, that he looks at her more at ease but not less guilty.

“You don’t think you’re a bit old for this, Nog?” Leeta sighs, the words spoken with familiar repetition as he smiles and shakes his head. “You know I wouldn’t do this for anyone else,” she continues as she picks the nightgown up and folds it carefully. “You’re such a spoiled brat, I don’t know why I put up with you.” Leeta places the folded gown on the cushioned seat in front of the vanity.

“Because you love me, Moogie,” Nog chimes in with a child’s smug smile worn on a man’s face. 

“Have you eaten?” Leeta asks him. “I can fry up some calamari if you want it. I try keep some frozen for when you come back and visit... But if you think I’m gonna chew it for you, you can stuff _that_ thought in a sack and bury it.” His eyes light up a moment and he almost looks eager to accept before he pauses, an inward turn making him sigh deeply.

“I don’t have time, Moogie. You’re the only one that I could come to now.” She is immediately sober at that thought, going to the door to check the lock. Nog seems to suddenly take notice of the changes tot he room. “Is everything okay? I saw the extra security. Has something happened? Has she come here already?” He looks anxious as Leeta turns back around, his fingers going beneath the poncho as if for a weapon. 

“No this is...” Leeta stops and looks at the door one last time. “...I thought it would be a good selling point for our rooms. You know we get all types through here and whey if I can get extra business with double security why not, right?”

He looks relieved. 

“Good. That’s good then... But I saw the man today who is renting the building. He is a wanted man. The bounty that I saw-”

“It’s not him,” Leeta is quick to cut him off. “His name is Garak.”

“That man on the poster was named Marritza... _”_ Nog looks at her shrewdly. “Like _that_ Marritza that you used to talk about.”

“It’s not him,” she insists firmly. “And neither is the man on the poster. He’s dead.” She says the words with a slight falter. 

“Ah, then that is good. You can renew your marriage contract with Father now.” He doesn’t notice the slight flicker across her face at those words.

“You know it’s not that simple,” she forces out with a small indulgent smile.

“Of course it is. You always used to tell me you and he had a prior arrangement. Well a dead man can’t renew a contract so surely you can-”

“Nog...”

“If it is about my father’s assets I would gladly add enough to make it a better offer. Only the best for my Moogie,” he throws in with a toothy smile that she turns away from. Leeta holds up a hand as she slowly walks to a sofa and lights an oil lamp next to it illuminating the small sitting area. 

“I’m not talking about this now,” she declares and with one look at her face he opens his mouth then quickly closes it.

“Right.” His expression sobers as he looks down, regarding his own clothing once more. “Right, there is business to be discussed and time is of the essence as the hoo-mans say.” He takes a seat on a large easy chair across from the sofa sinking into it with familiarity.

He lifts a foot, nearly putting it on the coffee table but stays that gesture with a glare from Leeta.

“Why haven’t you told your father and Jake that you’re alive?”

“Who says that I haven’t?” he answers automatically with a defensive draw of his shoulders. Leeta snorts.

“Because Rom hasn’t come banging at the door and Jake isn’t nearly a good enough actor to...” She trails off regarding him warily. “What have you gotten yourself caught up with, Nog?” She uses the same voice as she had years again for so many schemes cooked up between her adopted son and Jake Sisko.

“Profit!” He answers effusively to her cross expression.

“Nog-”

“Hear me out, Moogie.” That excitement dims just enough for her to stop and listen carefully. “This isn’t a proposition. This isn’t a business venture or anything else,” he adds quickly. “This is... so much more... So much more than I ever imagined when I entered Starfleet.”

“I’m listening, Nog, but I don’t think I’m gonna like the sound of this.”

“The sound is profit, Moogie. Profit beyond profit, Latinum as far as the eye can see. And all I need to do to claim it as mine is to stay alive.” That last bit is added with just a touch of a dramatic flair that she knows he had to have picked up from Jake.

“Okay, Mister, I think you’re gonna have to start from the beginning with this one.

“I’ll tell you everything, Moogie, but I need to know.” He looks nervously to the walls. “Is it safe to talk?” She nods. 

“Rom insisted on securing everything in my room, nothing would get him to even start to touch his but... you know your father.”

“Yes, a good man. You won’t find a better prospect for a marriage contract I...” He squirms under her sharp look. “I... will continue with my explanation, yes.

“Red Squad,” he begins dramatically with an expansive wave of his hands. “I couldn’t believe that they had selected me, _me_ to be in the most elite group of cadets at the Academy. You know how honored I was, what that meant to me to be accepted after I worked so hard just to get into Starfleet at all.”

“You know I was worried sick about you that entire time.” At this he hesitates before looking down at the table.

“I was fine you know. I didn’t have any trouble.”

“I believe that like I believe your uncle is an honest businessman. But I also know better than to worry about it now.”

“No crying over spilled bovine secretions,” Nog agrees, a grin accompanying that small inside joke shared between him and Jadzia Dax. “And you’re right. You should not... worry about it now. Even what I am about to tell you.

“There is a war that is about to begin. This is classified information. Even that much I shouldn’t tell you and... and whatever happens to the Federation, to the Cardassians or whoever I don’t... No... I know they would never come here. What we encountered is considered an anomaly. A strange disruption between ours and the Gamma Quadrant... Of course the Prophets would not allow such evil to pass through,” Nog says mostly to himself as he reaches up and absently fingers a Bajoran earring. “No, the Prophets would not allow such evil. But you have always told me the ways they work are unknown, that they only reveal what we are ready to know. And what I haven’t told you Moogie is what happened during that mission on the Valiant.”

“Oh ho, don’t tell me there’s _more_ to that? I thought you already told me everything. How you were attacked by Cardassians for invading their space, how it was only by the will of the Prophets that you cadets even made it back from that mission alive or, how about Starfleet not even telling me you were missing! I didn’t even hear about any of this until you came back!”

“You know communications between Starfleet and Central aren’t perfect.”

“But you said there’s more,” she presses, not allowing any diversion even with that sudden vent.

“What I’m going to tell you _cannot_ leave this room.” He leans in. “You cannot tell _anyone_. Please, Moogie. You’re the only one who can help me now.”

“You know I always have your back, Nog. Whatever you need,” she agrees without hesitation.

“What I never told you... what I never told anyone before except Jake is what happened after Captain Ramirez and the rest of the officers were killed, and who really attacked us. Captain Ramirez appointed Captain Watters to command the ship and we continued our mission. It wasn’t the Cardassians. They were already destroyed when we found their ship. The force responsible was unlike anything we had ever encountered and I cannot... I cannot say anything else. We gave a full report to Starfleet and they assured us that they’ll be investigating the anomaly. 

But we escaped. And we completed the mission. But before we completed the mission we found ourselves at the coordinates where Platonius was rumored to have existed. And that was were we discovered it. It was Kironide. But not the Kironide recorded and studied by Starfleet Medical. It was Platonian Kironide. It was the radical isotope. It was the stuff of legends. It was... priceless...” Nog’s eyes light up almost feverishly at this as he continues his explanation in a rush. “No, not priceless. Everything has a price. And the price on true Platonian Kironide... the profit in such a discovery could hardly be measured! Can you imagine, just a few ounces alone could be worth a brick of latinum alone. And we found a vein on a dead moon, an entire vein of it! My crew mates had no familiarity with mining, and they didn’t think there was any way to harvest it without sophisticated mining lasers, but I spent enough time with Chief O’Brien and those fools who visit the mines that I was able to refit one of the lasers to a crude miner. 

“It destroyed a lot of what we were harvesting but even then, we had enough. We had almost a ton. Captain Watters ordered us to destroy the moon and I was afraid there might be a mutiny but it was too big a risk to leave such a thing for anyone else to find. Platonian Kironide is what was said to give the Platonians their telekenetic abilities and Moogie... it _does!_ We tested it ourselves. I know... I _know_ it was dangerous but the profits...”

“The Prophets would have you leave those things alone and you know it.”

“I couldn’t leave it, I just _couldn’t_ ,” he pleads, and she sees the shining of his eyes, Ferengi coming to the forefront and she just sighs and takes his hands across the table. 

“Where is it now Nog? And why are you here pretending to be dead instead of living it up on Risa?” He squeezes her hands, that excitement dying down quickly.

“Karen Farris,” he says simply and Leeta waits for him to continue when she lets go of his hands. He rubs his palms nervously on the fabric of the poncho. “We had to dead drop it on Westworld-”

“You what?!” Nog holds his ears with a pained wince.

“We didn’t have any other choice!” he insists trying to clear his head from the shrill exclamation. “There isn’t anywhere else in the Alpha Quadrant that it would be safe except here! You know that ships can’t land for cargo, no one else can retrieve it unless they use the drill, it was the only way to ensure that no one...” He takes a deep breath. “We took an oath... Those of us who were left. There were only eleven of us by then. The heroes of the Valiant,” he says bitterly. “Heroes... You told me the Prophets reward our suffering, Moogie. I believe that. Surely I’ll be guaranteed to go to the Divine Treasury with this reward. And I’ve never forgotten what you’ve taught me about being fair and equitable. So I proposed that instead of my getting ninety percent of the profit since I was the one who made it possible to mine that we leave the entire bounty for the last one of us alive. 

“It is an ancient Earth custom that I studied. They called in a ton-teen. I had considered that the Prophets had already favored me, so naturally I would be the longest lived of all of us. I wouldn’t trust another Ferengi not to just hire an Eliminator, but hoo-mans in Starfleet are too good for that... at least that’s what I thought,” he grumbles to himself, oblivious in his narrative to Leeta’s long suffering deep frown.

“Karen Farris,” she repeats in a knowing voice. “I don’t even know where to start with you, Nog.”

“We dropped the cargo safely. I was able to get a container from cousin Gaila without too many questions, you know he has to dead drop sometimes with his business so the container was fine. It landed... It landed. We secured a location on the west continent in the Thrandian Caverns. It’s safe. We made sure of that. And we locked the box with eleven keys. The lock on that box is the fusion lock that Chief O’Brien created; no one will be able to open it without the keys and anyone who tries to pick it will break it shut for good. Each of us has a key that can only be released when we die. That was five years ago. Three years ago Shepherd was killed. I didn’t think anything of it. It was just a lift accident. His key went to Captain Watters. Then Enders was killed a few months later and her key went to Collins. Then Daywal, then Laxis, then Tam, and finally Auren.”

“That’s only ten.”

“Neem went into hiding. There’s five of us now. I can’t prove it but it _has_ to be Farris. She’s the only one with the access and the knowledge to have engineered the accidents that killed the others. I’m almost afraid Captain Watters might be next but I haven’t been able to get to him. She’s always with him whenever I’ve seen him.”

“Are you they’re not working together?” Quick, adaptable, her mind is already working as she studies the table.

“I can’t imagine a man as honorable as Captain Watters would ever do such a thing or even condone it if he knew. No, he has to be next, I’m sure of it.” 

“There’s no honor amongst thieves,” she reminds him with a shake of her head. “Where are your keys, Nog? You should have two then, right?”

“Right.” His eyes dart to the window, shutters pulled tight as if he could see through them to the rest of the town.

“They’re in the shop right now. Three of them will be coming. Neem will stay in hiding. I haven’t spoken to him in over a year now and I haven’t seen him in nearly two. He hasn’t stepped out even to claim the key that should’ve been his. No, it will just be the three of them. And you and I know that without a body they can’t disperse the will that easily. That’s still the law here And I’m still a citizen of Westworld first. They’ll have to wait even with the documents that Starfleet sent. But I know whoever’s behind this won’t. We’ll see how they come, and we’ll see who searches for the key first. They’re hidden. They won’t be found so easily.”

“And where do I come in then? I’m not a killer, Nog. Prophets help me I’ll defend you with my life but I sure hope that’s not what you’re asking me because-” 

“I need you to be my eyes, Moogie. I need you to see what I can’t. I need to know what’s going on. There’s a door upstairs at the end of the hall that’s only to be opened once the time has passed. In that room is a box on a center pedestal with two keys in it. But those aren’t the keys. You can tell as soon as you see them. If you open the door by the instructions it will guide you there and the top of the pedestal will reveal the location of the true keys. But if you don’t...”

“If you don’t...” she echoes feeling inexplicably anxious.

“Then as you always say, Moogie, it is in the hands of the Prophets.”


	18. Born Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Bashir is determined to get his questions answered. Garak is determined to be... Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: It's still Sunday as long as I'm awake, that how I'm looking at it, ahah. Anyway, a bit late, but I hope the end makes up for it. As far in as we are I wanted to move along with with Julian so yeah, I went there :D Things are about to get heated in more ways than one. No real warnings although I wrote this hungry so I might have been a bit lurid with the food descriptions... Anyway, thank you everyone for reading, C&C always welcome!

He locks the door behind him after a quick glance to the shop floor reveals no patrons.

“Have you got anyone in the dressing room?” Doctor Bashir stands, back to the door, hand lingering over that simple lock that Garak has every intention of refitting. Garak sets down the shirt he was carefully refolding, not answering him immediately as he takes pains to smooth the creases cleanly. He looks up after taking note with a sidelong glance of the impatient shift of a foot before raising his head with a faint smile.

“Doctor Bashir, what an unexpected surprise,” he makes no mention of the fact that the Doctor stands with his hands still pressed to that wooden pane as if he may be holding back some massive stampede. “Although I’m afraid I’m woefully unsuited for company in my current position. I’ve heard much mention made since my arrival here about doctors and the hours they set to suit them at their leisure but a humble tailor such as myself does not have that same luxury. Money makes the world go ‘round, as I’ve heard Quark to be known to say on occasion. 

“You’ve my word that I’ll make it up to you,” Doctor Bashir assures him making no move to step further onto the shop floor. Garak notices then that the one hand holds a rather large cloth tied tightly to a sack as is the rather whimsical customer here. “But is there anyone else about? No company that I should be aware of?” He drops his voice uncertainly with a quick dart of his eyes towards the newly constructed dressing room at the far end of the space in plain view of the counter. Garak approaches him with an amused shake of his head.

“I couldn’t possibly conduct any clandestine meetings without first inviting you to observe from behind the curtain. As a matter of fact, I’m expecting to host two Klingons tonight should you choose to return at say twenty fifty five hours this evening. I could show you a suit that would make you into a new man.”

“You might have just said no,” Doctor Bashir offers with a slightly boyish petulance. 

“I might have,” Garak agrees, “Just as you might have let on that you’ve been watching very carefully and you knew that there was no one else in here. But that, my dear, would spoil the entire game now, wouldn’t it?” He watches that frown deepen. Garak can tell that it troubles the doctor to consider the possibility that his presence may very well no longer be so neatly camouflaged. Garak decides to leave him guessing on that one for it is far better to have him still believe that he retains that advantage. He does not, of course. Garak has considered himself- and has always considered by others as well to be hatefully so- extremely adaptable and quite adept when it comes to working around abilities that confound him. He’s almost certain that it ties in to the doctor’s ability to manipulate faintly by touch and tap into or rather, obscure those often forgotten extra sensory senses that lick at the consciousness of every sentient being. But if there is one this Garak has had to learn to be a master of, it is his own senses, feeling, even the very aura that he radiates when dealing with those such as Vulcans and Betazoids.

Garak prides himself on being unreadable, inscrutable, and it is that pride which has also caused him to view anyone with an equal advantage as a terribly important puzzle to be conquered. And thus he comes full circle to that careful practice of not letting that subtle projection of Doctor Bashir’s to insinuate itself so deeply as to fool him again. He lets himself bask, drink in that sense of presence that the doctor makes no effort to hide so that he may always know its absence- true or false. And as Garak approaches, with a sheepish glance down, a carefully acted show of submission broken only by a faint lack of remorse in hazel eyes, Doctor Bashir holds out the parcel for him to take. 

“Well, on that note, I thought I might bring an apology.... er a piece offering you know for ah...”

“An egregious invasion of my privacy?” Garak does not suppress the soft chuckle at the earnest tone. “I can hardly deny that I would do the same in your position, my dear doctor, but as you’ve seen, I am an open book.”

Garak takes the package back to the counter, remembering that humans on Westworld unlike some other cultures prefer to have the recipient of their gifts open them immediately in a garish display of slavish gratitude unless otherwise instructed. Doctor Bashir, true to that expectation follows circumspect, a mature attempt at hiding his interest in Garak’s reaction.

“Even so, I feel just awful about it. About this whole mess really. I think I’ve managed to convince Odo to take down that ghastly poster as well. I pointed out to him that as we can confirm you as neither Marritza nor even Garak for that matter, to keep that thing hanging when it clearly looks so much like you-”

“How thoughtful,” Garak interrupts him with an acrid sweetness, the bundle easily untied, and then the largest cloth inside that to reveal a beautiful blue bottle of what he can only imagine to be kanar. And a southern vintage at that, the ornately blown glass of the bottle indicating it could have only possibly come from the Kirak family. He turns it over and sees the crest, the sight a welcome distraction from the thought of that offensive poster.

“Yes, a most excellent choice, doctor,” Garak murmurs not quite turning to the remaining contents of the open cloth. “Shall I send Ms. Dax a token of my gratitude for her good taste in kanar selection or would your verbal playback be sufficient, do you think?” Doctor Bashir laughs.

“Guilty as charged. I don’t know the first thing about kanar. I don’t know anything about Cardassian food either so lunch might be a bit out of your comfort zone.” Garak takes note of the careful radius of that aura Doctor Bashir possesses, that acute awareness bringing with it an odd immediacy of his presence that borders on intimate when he finds the doctor looking at him expectantly from across the counter.

“I think you’ll find doctor, there is little that is... outside my comfort zone.” The answer is breezy, light as he regards the two tightly wrapped squares and hopes that in spite of his boast there there are no live insects.

“I’m glad to hear it, Garak,” Doctor Bashir answers, something in his tone causing Garak to look up slightly from his examination of several other wrapped pieces, one likely another bottle and two more perhaps some other food item. “I might be up for anything today as well. Maybe we could finish our discussion now that there aren’t any other distractions.” _Ah, of course, that’s what you want isn’t it, doctor? Necessity has kept us both busy but I hardly expected you to drop the matter lightly. No, I’d be disappointed if you weren’t so dogged in your determination to ferret out the little clues that I’ve left for you to something far more substantial and quite likely dangerous. But as productive as these past few weeks have been in cementing my cover, they’ve had precious little to offer in the way of anything remotely resembling excitement save for a few more distracting dinners with your rather alluring colleague._ Dinners that, as Jadzia had offered could certainly lead to a few more pleasant distractions free from the trappings of intrigue, but somehow Garak found that straightforward solicitation to be just a touch lacking in challenge. Not that he didn’t think Jadzia could be challenging when she put her mind to it but that hardly seemed to interest her for the time.

That isn’t to say that the doctor’s interest isn’t apparent in its own right- especially after that night- but there is a hesitance, a subterfuge, a sense that the game hasn’t yet played out that makes Garak far more eager than he ought to be to accept Doctor Bashir’s impromptu lunch offer. He gathers the bundle back up with a nod.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to close up for lunch, though I warn you, doctor, the table in the back is ill suited for much else besides a few papers, and I still haven’t been able to procure any satisfactory chairs.”

“Lead the way, Garak,” Doctor Bashir answers a small smile curling his lips, premature triumph rolling over in waves. It reminds Garak of a young riding hound prancing around the hard, certain he’s hidden some ill gotten table scraps safe from the prying eyes of his master. _But can he be taught to heel?_ That thought almost catches Garak off guard, nearly making him stop short as he opens the door to the back room, ushering the doctor to a small table on the far side of the room, opposite the large work bench covered in fabric and notions. 

The tabletop is small, waist high and thankfully clear of the morning’s inventory that he’s quickly sorted through. 

“May I?” Doctor Bashir works quickly as Garak steps aside, He watches as the bundles are open to reveal two bowls of soup, the vacuum seal of the lids removed with a faint _snick_ , the smell of some savory vegetable filling his nostrils pleasantly. “Butternut squash,” Doctor Bashir narrates as he unwraps two metal spoon. “And what’s a nice warm winter soup without sandwiches, right?” he unwraps the two squares revealing bread- and to Garak’s relief not some sort of sand or soil- with what appears to be thinly sliced meats between them accompanied by the ubiquitous fermented bovine secretions he’s come to know as cheese. There’s a pleasant warm laugh that comes from the doctor at Garak’s continued soft polite smile inclined toward the food that he thinks is going to sit like stones in his stomach. 

“You look like my mother when I was a child and would bring her mud pies that I made.”

“Are mud pies in the same culinary idiom vein as sand-witches?”

“Oh God, no!” Doctor Bashir laughs louder and Garak imagines that whatever contrast lies between the two it must go beyond mere nomenclature. Doctor Bashir stands on the other side of the small table as he takes out at last two bottles of either root beer or some other carbonated woody tonic. “No no, no relation at all... at least not anything that Leeta makes. You ah... don’t have any cultural dietary restrictions, do you? I didn’t even think of that honestly. I mean of course I thought Leeta might say something about my choice if she thought it was an issue but then there are a lot of ethical vegetarians and of course any physiological issues as well...” He looks concerned for a moment and Garak waves it away. He’s become far more familiar with the wide variety of meats that humans enjoy in their diet. On closer examination the slices in question appear to be roast beast or something similar. 

He doesn’t recall that particular item giving him any digestive issues and he’s careful as Doctor Bashir opens the bottles with a small knife pulled from his pocket, not to become complacent with the steady stream of babble for his benefit. He listens, of course he might be called upon to recall even the most inane conversation points later, but he does not allow himself to become absorbed in the material more than he needs to be. It is a tactic, and a very basic one to get him to drop his guard, and Garak is sure to listen with a polite nod of his head as Doctor Bashir explains that root beer in fact refers specifically to a beverage derived from the sassafras root generally combined with other mint or fruit flavors rather than being a catch all term, and that actually the beverage he’s brought is birch beer. Garak is not particularly expecting there to be much difference until he tastes the bubbly brew and finds it much more heavily spiced and far less cloying. It almost burns, his sinuses almost making him cough until he lets it fizzle down, a quick swallow leaving that crisp feeling in his mouth.

Garak finds a slow curious scrutiny following that drink from across the table and he can only imagine the expression on his face as he blinks several times strangely tempted to have another drink. 

“I’ve heard some call it root beer’s nasty little cousin, but I’ve always preferred it myself. It’s a little different than what one expects having only a lifetime of the other.”

“You strike me as a man who prefers a bit of the other. Perhaps more than a bit.” Garak sees Doctor Bashir stop almost stark still at that statement and he isn’t quite certain what about that should prompt such an immediate reaction. In fact he nearly looks about to choke rather than swallow the drink and Garak finds that completely fascinating as the doctor’s face darkens rather magnificently as he stares across the table. Whatever he said, whatever context is behind it, Garak can infer some embarrassing undertone and he marvels at the seemingly endless amount of clandestine sexual references prevalent in Federation Standard. There comes a hard swallow and Doctor Bashir quickly recovers, eyes darting down to his lunch for just a split second to finalize that shift.

Garak sees that introspective turn of his eyes and decides that it would be a good time to sample the sand-witch before he samples the desert readying itself to be devoured. He’s thankful as he eats that the contents of the inside obscure the taste of the small seeds of the bread that try and make their presence known rather insistently. He makes a note to find out what sort of bread this is and never order any as long as he lives. But those moments to chew, to savor the meat and the generous amount of unctuous sauce. The cheese is sharp- not his favorite but not so unpleasantly reminiscent of its origins as others he’s sampled- and that large bite lets him discreetly observe as he chews, sandwich held covetously in both hands. He wonders if he ever appeared so fresh, so obvious when he was much less experienced in his undercover work, but no, Garak does not believe he would ever be so obvious in the change of his body language, his eyes, even the tilt of his head when subtly shifting mannerisms for his work. But then again the doctor, while similar in age could hardly be expected to be held to that same standard. At least not yet.

Garak pretends not to notice as he sets the sandwich down. This is after all, Doctor Bashir’s little game and he doesn’t see a need to break any rules of decorum just yet.

“I guess Jadzia’s been talking again,” Doctor Bashir says at last only further cementing Garak’s determination of his earlier comment as being ignorantly sexual. _Sloppy, Elim. You’ve had all the time int he world to make a better study of idioms._ “But I think it’s time for you to do a little talking, Garak. And I want to know, because I don’t trust the little clues that lead me to the book that I found, which book is the truth.”

“And you expect me to answer honestly without any of your... truth serum?” Garak asks careful to conceal the beautiful ecstasy he feels at being asked the question. 

“Not at all, Garak, but I expect that you like everyone else has a tell for your lies. Everyone does. One just needs to know what to look for.” Smug. So beautiful almost righteously arrogant. _Oh doctor. Oh doctor, doctor, your naiveté is so perfect. Oh there is hope for you but these moments. These precious moments are the child’s first wavering steps before falling back to the ground in front of its parents._

_You really believe that, don’t you? You actually believe, augment, arrogant, brilliant augment that there isn’t any little thing you can’t accomplish if you just try hard enough. As long as you’ve lived you’ve managed to cling to that delusion, to that child’s ignorance, and I don’t doubt that you’ve never been faced with failure before. Or if you have it was a failure as such that you could swath yourself up in some fatalistic delusion but to sit there and tell me, to tell Elim Garak that you can see through his lies because you solved a child’s simple puzzle... Oh the potential is there, I wouldn’t be bothered to lead you stumbling through the dark if there wasn’t but my my, will I ever have fun disabusing you of these notions of yours._ And it is that thought that gives him a brief bitter pill, a brief memory of the child that he ruined, the small toothless snake that grew her fangs and bit him deep until he thought she might cling until she grew large enough to devour him whole. But that thought passes just as quickly as the doctor eats, watching him, waiting for his answer.

And Garak gives it to him with a prim sip of the bubbly birch beer.

“Of course, my dear, they’re all true.” He watches Doctor Bashir process that quickly, seeing that conclusion dawn with a brief widening of those eyes and he almost thinks the spectacles might slip as the doctor regroups once more. He can see the small tell, if there are any tells to be told it is the doctor’s quick double blink downturn that reveals the augmented brain processing, scanning, just like a machine filtering and discarding solutions until it comes to the most logical one. It’s rather attractive, Garak decides as Doctor Bashir catches his eyes carefully.

“They’re all lies then. Every one of them.”

“Just as they are all true,” Garak fires back intentionally infuriating but finds that the response isn’t a quick rush to frustration. No, the doctor is playing deadly for real today. That excites him enough to give a soft breath, a soft click of his tongue and Garak can see a slight rise of Doctor Bashir’s head, a slight flare of nostrils that seems to pick up some scent, that unconscious desire.

Garak smiles at him, letting it grow darker, letting that atmosphere in the room shift as he sees Doctor Bashir’s long fingers spider crawl across the table to rest over the back of his hand. Garak lets him. He feels the heat from Doctor Bashir’s fingers, and he feels that light press, not quite with that same subtle manipulation but also clearly seductive as the lightly rub back and forth. Garak can see the discard of one question after another in one more blink quick double blink and he feels the curl of those fingers just as Doctor Bashir makes a not so subtle study of the collar of Garak’s shirt. Perhaps he looks at his mouth as well. There is a lick of lips that begs for a mirror, that begs for a lot of things really as Garak lets his own attention flit to that perpetually open collar and golden skin.

“I think I’m going about this the wrong way, Garak. I think that I really need to ask you is... are you a dangerous man?” 

“To you, Doctor?”

“Answer the question.” Those fingers slide to his wrist and Garak remains acutely aware at all times of the likely upper limit of even an augment’s strength with the doctor’s height and likely muscular development. 

“Then perhaps you should ask the right question, Doctor.”

“I _am_ asking the right question, Garak.”

“Ah, but that is where _your_ truth becomes a lie. No, that is not the question that you really want the answer to.” No squeeze, not yet, but Doctor Bashir moves closer, his face coming closer as his voice drops, as if every wall were listening to their words.

“Tell me,” a soft desperate plea.

“Am I here to kill you,” breathed out in a equally low drop, Garak making no move but letting the doctor lean, cross that distance stretched across the table almost painfully to his limit. And yet he doesn’t draw back. There’s a palpable tension of his shoulders, fought against, silenced in that moment and stilled so that they might stand face to face.

“Yesss...” he hisses sexy sibilant breath warming Garak’s face.

“But that’s not the best question, doctor,” Garak answers as he allows himself at last to be drawn to that heat, to those eyes, to that increase of respiration, of those eyes that have begun to flicker madly even as they fall nearly shut.

“Please...” Another elongated S with a slight sharp edge that leaves no doubt the doctor has studied those sounds, rehearsed them, has made a perfect mimic of that turn of his head, another faint flick of his tongue just like he would need to do. It is complete put on, a fabrication, but what Garak knows he cannot fabricate is that equally strong, equally arousing scent, that faint breach of tincture and clove that he cannot ignore. It couples with that near flawless act, with those parted lips that crudely invite him to let their mouths meet in that sloppy undignified mammalian mash. Garak doesn’t quite let their mouths touch as he matches that tilt, instead bringing his other hand to the nape of the doctor’s neck, carefully curling fingers to hold that head back, thick half silvered waves tangling in his grip.

“The real question, Doctor,” Garak whispers tightening his hand, feeling nails dig into his wrist in response, “Is whether or not you can stop me if I am.” And with that it is Garak who leads that hard kiss, who holds that head, and brings them their mouths together in a vicious, violent crash.


	19. Skin Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Garak has been reading too much porn but we finally get a release of all this damn sexual tension amidst posturing and death threats... and Julian is kinda slutty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Believe it or not I actually made it a point to get an early start on this chapter so I wouldn't be posting so late... And then I ended up deleted everything I wrote and redoing it cause I didn't like it. Anyway, I don't care what Ginsberg says about "First thought best thought" I like this better. So yeah, more Garak/Bashir action and man was this fun to write. Still more dangerous banter and warning for sexy times sorta.I also realized this might be starting to get explicit but I have a bit of trouble figuring that one out since for me it's actually rather tame still so yeah... Thank you everyone for reading and for your support. C&C is of course welcome.

The tension in Doctor Bashir’s fingers is what he feels first. That is, the first sensation that he registers outside of the lips pressed to his own. It is the first sensation that is separate from the hot wet tongue shoved unceremoniously into his mouth battling his own to a gasping drowning, head tilting, half breathless sparring. There is a faint scratch of facial hair, too hard to tickle, a scrape of a brush igniting the sensitive nerves around his mouth. No, until he feels the grip of those fingers shift there is nothing else that Garak registers outside of the vibrating thrum of a growl, of Doctor Bashir breathing a heaving breath to his mouth, passing into his own lungs followed by a quick, vicious suck to his bottom lip. There is a series of small bites following, an unintelligible murmur against him that he silences with a tighter grip to the doctor’s scalp that makes a brilliant biting clash of teeth, of a sharp incisor inciting a rush of blood when it nicks him roughly.

That is when he feels that tension and it becomes remarkable only because he can tell there is a very distinct correlation between that unconscious body motion and the quick smack of Doctor Bashir’s free hand to Garak’s on his hair. _A pressure point? No, he only needs a twist. Even without any extra human ability it’s easy to twist the wrist in the proper motion._ Garak separates, mouth still just long enough to be sure not follow the motion as the doctor twists, forcing his hand away. He hisses, not a hard feat, the line between pleasure and pain blurred as his other wrist is released. Garak follows as his hand is pulled back towards Doctor Bashir, as they step away from the table, that motion forcing him to step in, his mind a constant whirring process, acutely aware of the doctor’s position, his presence, as those spectacles slip down and there’s a quick seemingly hypnotic gaze that catches his.

Garak allows it, eyes a carefully constructed fabrication to the doctor’s pupils, right eye perfectly attentive but the left just a touch higher, a focus to the open eyelid instead. He doesn’t particularly believe the doctor to possess any extraordinary powers of manipulation but rather a careful study of manipulative psychology, of body language instead. And there’s a draw of shoulders, a squaring, a straightening of the spine that increases that marginal difference in their heights to a downward look. Garak doesn’t strive to meet it but rather takes a slight step back- seeming submissive, body squared, that tilt of his head causing a surprisingly predatory flicker in those eyes boring carefully into his. 

“You shouldn’t underestimate me, Garak,” The doctor whispers, an extra enunciation of those soft, slightly swollen lips that allow for no mistake in hearing or reading. His smile grows and he tastes just a faint tang of blood in his mouth that may be his own.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Doctor,” he all but purrs as his wrist is pulled back just a bit further with the obvious intent of overbalancing him. He has an absent thought to complete the motion, to turn, to free his wrist easily and give the doctor’s terribly tempting rear a good hearty smack as he’s often read in those dreadful pulp trash novels Jadzia’s been inflicting on him recently. A smack, a squeeze, a good lusty worship of that ass he’s never particularly considered until “Lust in the Desert” provided a rather enlightening and decidedly human view of the matter. But rather he plays the game carefully, feeling the grip on his wrist ease with that faint shrink of his stance. “In fact, I believe you’re holding my far tighter than is comfortable.” The lie comes easily, but as soon as the words are spoken, the doctor lets go of him completely. _Perfectly read. After all these years you can tell he’s still too conscious, still too careful, too afraid of his own strength. He had to know he wasn’t hurting you but there was that doubt, that carefully cultured fear that he was._

“I know you’re playing with me,” Doctor Bashir insists with an overly compensatory steel in his voice. There is a slight certainty lacking there, a hesitance that might end the encounter entirely should Garak allow it. _Which is exactly what you should be doing. You’re due a progress report in less than two month’s time and you’ve barely begun the task at hand, Elim. Now just let the doctor leave, let him believe this game some overly done fantasy of his played with nothing but a slightly clever but otherwise unremarkable man who is likely a tailor at heart. Or some variant that you can scrap after all the ridiculous intrigue you’ve fallen into._ But in spite of that recrimination, Garak looks away, a brief glimpse to his work table, his mind already debating the feasibility of allowing this to progress to it’s much needed heated conclusion. _Really, should this progress further it would really be better to settle upstairs in the one half heartedly furnished sitting room rather than this close to several days of work._

 _Don’t do this, Elim... Ah, but who are you kidding? To come this far to back down? To slink off like one of those other dullards married to their work, Guls, you’ve always been more than that. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. And you_ _cannot deny that thrum of excitement, that desire to test, to push, to see just how far Doctor Bashir is willing to go, how far he can match you. You know you want to see whether or not he’ll break or bend._ Garak of course is a master of a slippery twine around tight until the trap is set. He can bend, he can bow when needed, but nonetheless, there remains that primitive desire to fight for dominance, to throw down, to take a much more brutal grip to the nape of the long neck and press it against that pristine work table, to watch the doctor claw, beg, violated, loving every moment... _My, Elim, you really_ _must_ _stop reading those ridiculous books before bed._ No, those tales have hardly done much for his control in light of the revelation that the doctor has been watching, studying, Garak’s insipid imaginings some nights that those eyes watch him from the window- impractical as that may be- as he takes himself in hand, messily, breathlessly palming himself to completion... _Yes, definitely not reading any more of that pornography masquerading as literature._

He can feel the heat of his face, that heat spreading, the flush dark of his scales, of the dip below his throat, and Garak silently curses his lack of restraint. _But is it really? How many weeks, how many months have you been dancing around each other? How many near misses have you had? How many times have you felt that body pressed to yours, smelled that heat, felt that tremble beneath your fingertips only to be denied time and time again._ Really, when he considers it in that context he’s had the puritanical restrain of some staid Bajoran holy man. Especially the way those eyes watch him hungry, lustful, warring beautifully with some violent, fearful, self preserving impulse that Garak just cannot help but want poke at. He knows even as he speaks there is a carefully coiling of preparation, ready to strike like a cornered snake, but Garak cannot help but see where that response will lead. _Well, you_ _did_ _say when you accepted this assignment that you were ready for anything._ Surely _this_ was hardly the scenario that Tain envisioned when needling him with that offensive inquiry and Garak feels for just an irrational adolescent moment the elation of picturing expression on that face seeing him now.

“You never did answer my question, Doctor.” Garak notes that Doctor Bashir’s heavy breaths come to an abrupt halt as his body shifts back to alert, and he doesn’t even need to look for that blink to know there is some esoteric preparation which precedes the slow removal of spectacles. It does create a rather dramatic picture combined with the tussled hair and those faintly parted lips. But it isn’t fear he senses, that he smells. Oh certainly buried beneath is that fear of death prevalent in all animals, but it’s nothing beneath the faint danger the doctor himself sets off. 

“I don’t think you want an answer to that question, Garak.” Another low drop, sensual, a step in, height difference emphasized once more only this time he doesn’t allow himself to be submitted. There is sex that radiates off the man in waves, an interesting accompaniment to the clear that that his every gestures attempts to exude. 

 _Sex and death intertwined, the story of your life, Elim. It’s no wonder the human French say “la petit mort” as a euphemism for that peak._ Garak allows a dangerous smile to cross his own face, completely certain the Doctor Bashir fully intends to marry the two beautiful cousins when he takes another step. Garak takes a circling step, feeling the work table pass from his side to his back.

“Do you think I make it a habit to ask questions that I do not wish answered, Doctor?”

“Call me Julian,” lower, breathier, closer.

“Are you on a first name basis with all your would be assassins, Julian?” Two hands behind hold the edge of the table, his body thrumming with excitement.

“You want me.” Declared. Decided. Demanded.

“Do you think that would prevent me from killing you?” He allows himself to be amused at that childish notion even as he allows that faint suggestion to take hold. Yes. Want. Want is indeed a very powerful motivator.

There’s a faint falter, a slight break in that charade as if he may have miscalculated but Garak maintains his demeanor flawlessly even as the doctor... even as Julian steps on forward leg between his, trapping, taking, hands clamping down over his with a flash of white teeth. 

“No, I don’t,” he says breath to breath before turning away, mouth instead seeking Garak’s neck, finding it bared, bait that he takes eagerly with a hard fasten of his mouth to that sensitive juncture that makes Garak’s body wash with heat anew as Julian turns into him with a thrust of his hips and a soft moan, that seeking contact the balm that only scratches the surface of some built up agonizing ache. And he feels that ache, feels that hardness pressed to his hip his hands trapped as far as Julian is concerned. Garak groans and finds in some mortifying quick slip of time that tighten of his groin, that urge, that impulse to allow that slit to part, to allow that eversion to relieve that bursting ballooning tightness that he feels when Julian wiggles and moves his mouth some series of sucks to that exposed hollow tongue circling the rim with painful delicacy.

Garak debates the ease with which he could extract his hands but find Julian’s hands moving already to steal around, to begin pushing that heavy shirt up, his hands thankfully only slightly cooler than Garak’s own hot skin. 

“I want you... Garak...” is stammered to his skin and he isn’t certain he was meant to hear at that low volume. But the pitch is low enough that his ears catch it, far better attuned to soft low sounds than the highs. “I want you... so bloody badly...” again spoken with an accompanying shiver only just barely heard. Garak tilts his head to the ceiling a faint calculating smile on his face. _Well that makes this much easier then, doesn’t it?_ He sighs, curious to see when the weapon will reveal itself, knowing that if Jadzia was the one who trained him ten it will make itself known only when the time comes to strike. In spite of himself he holds that brief bit of memory, letting it come fondly just for a few seconds as Julian drops to his knees clearly not wasting any more time on preliminaries.

_She moved with him fast, hard, allowing her wrists to be pinned to the floor just long enough to let him feel properly dominant. Jadzia let her hips move, tilt, let him thrust deeper, let his head bow down just a little further until his face was buried to her shoulder, his eyes closed, the world narrowing away from his usual all consuming awareness. It was the feel of heat, the sound of her voice breathing his name the soft caress of her hand that cause him to relax that grip, to free her left, the non dominant hand to claw at his back until he was certain that’s all there was to it. And that was when he felt the hand to his hair, felt something removed and he remembered just as he avoided a sharp stab to the back of his neck that she was a master of sleight of hand. And of course while he might make a careful study of every inch of his body he would never think to do the same with his own, and as he caught her wrist again, slamming it back to the floor hard, he heard the clank, felt another clench, and decided that he’d have to keep his guard up around these people on Westworld._

That memory causes him to absently examine his hair again, take careful stock of his own body as Julian looks up, shirt unbuttoned two more buttons, half slipping off from his shoulder, that scruff of short beard quickly giving way to nothing but smooth caramel skin, to tight slim muscles and Garak sees those long fingers working the last two buttons, the shirt falling down to a pile that may or may not contain something hidden. He kicks it just out of reach with his foot seeing the slight furrow of brow, the slight consternation coupled with a bite of his lip. 

“Just let me do this,” soft, almost begging, as if his hands hovering above those trouser buttons were about to unlatch the greatest treasure chest the galaxy has ever known. As if Talen in Parmalat’s final novel had in fact laid his hands on his uncle’s greatest file box instead of falling to his death, impaled on a sharpened fountain sculpture. Ego, of course it is that base ego that look and those eager hands appeal to, and Garak curses himself for being ten times a fool even as he nods, one sharp jerk of acceptance. 

 _By the State, if he bites it off you deserve every bit of that humiliation before you die, Elim._ He silences that voice, with an intense focus on those steady fingers easing one button after another until there’s a count of four and a slow slip of Julian’s hand beneath that parted fabric rubbing, coaxing that eversion through the fly opening just barely parted. Garak groans, head bowed, breathing heavier as Julian strokes him through the fabric, as he presses down, letting that cotton start to soak. He places those pressured pads perfectly, hitting every sensitive spot right around that slit, forcing a soft swearing bit of Federation Standard that he cannot believe passes his lips. There are not in fact words in proper Cardǎsda to quite express the full range of vulgar thoughts swirling in his head when Julian dips his head and seals his mouth to that growing wetness breathing out hot welcome breath through the damp cloth. No, his native tongue is far more dignified than the stream of _fuckfuckshitsuckme_ that comes to him unbidden as Julian breathes again, the promise of that mouth forcing his cock to slowly emerge with a low growl.

“Yes, that’s a good boy,” Julian whispers, the heated tone the only saving grace to such a patronizing murmur as he feels the soft cotton slowly part, a secondary slit as his cock comes to full aching bloom before his eyes and Julian’s lips. He watches the faint draw back, the faint widening of those eyes at the emerging of that full length, still moving, growing, hard pulsing, the temperature differential of the air the only hindrance. “Oh...” Just “Oh”. Just a simple “Oh”, an unspoken my, an appreciative tremor of Julian’s shoulders speaking volumes about just where Julian’s thoughts lay at this exact moment in time. That is of course unless the augment brain is so vastly different than the normal human one that it can process the same way that his own might, but as Garak sees a faint glassy sheen to those eyes, he somehow doubts it. Garak finds to his chagrin though that his own mind rather than being properly divided between that face and any murderous attempts is oddly wont to flicker to vulgar passages of those Gul’s damned books.

He doesn’t care how much his “vulgar vernacular” has improved, he’s never touching another one of those things as long as he lives. The taint of those insipid metaphors creeping into his head will surely haunt him for the rest of his days and he’s thankful that Julian chooses that moment to give one final glance up, mouth hovering just at the tip of his waiting prick. 

“Are you ready for a little death, Garak?” Julian teases; at least Garak decides that it is merely some playful sexual double entendre rather than a true threat. He smiles back with equal ardor.

“Do you worst, my dear,” he answers voice not entirely steady, that last breath turning to a loud groan as he’s swallowed completely to the root in one fluid motion. Julian’s hands capture his hips faster than he’d have thought possible, forcing him to the table, forcing him still with a taste of his true strength just as Garak’s body jerks with that aborted snap, wanting nothing more than to thrust wildly into that tight vacuum sealed mouth.

And that’s when he turns his head and sees the blonde woman watching him through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if anyone's figured out what all the chapter titles have in common yet...


	20. The Deadly Trackers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The identity of the mystery woman revealed in a flashback and the plot surrounding the keys thickens. Does Garak ever get his blowjob? Read and find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Happy Holidays and all that good stuff. Once again I ended up discarding all my hard work to alleviate this last minute rush only for a total rewrite but I'm a lot happier with the finished result, The plot with Nog thickens. But who's telling the truth? Also apologies in advance for everyone who was awaiting a full chapter dedicated to a Garak/Bashir BJ. I know there's a special place in fandom hell that awaits me. Ah but it will come, no pun intended. Thank you all for reading and commenting and following and being awesome. C&C is always welcome.

_The woman was not the first to enter the shop three days ago. It was a man. He was tall and held himself high, almost to the point of stiffness, as he entered. There was a brief look which passed between himself and the woman who followed that Garak pretended not to notice. He made a quick assessment of the man first as he entered, starting with a flicker to the immaculately polished shoes. Polished, yet worn without spats, without that extraneous little piece of cloth that any well dressed well to do native would certainly don to protect the integrity of such a polish. And with that polish so perfectly held, the patent leather showing only the faintest creases he could see the shoes hadn’t seen much wear between station and shop. They couldn’t have been his normal shoes. The loose brown trousers fed up into an auburn vest, tapered at the waist, a signature style of Central. The tie was loose, careless, the shirt rumpled from improper storage. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the latest fashion catalogue, in fact. Garak found the effort worthy of a brief smile and nod._

_He turned his attention next to the woman who entered behind but quickly circled in front like a she dog protecting its mate’s throat from attack. Oh but she didn’t feign fear, quite the opposite. She strode in front, a faint wobble of her ankle revealing her inexperience in walking in the high heels that fashionable Westworld women frequently donned. Her outfit was equally as precious; she matched him in scarlet, a plunging neckline far too revealing to be worn without a coat in the brisk late autumn chill, but wear it she did. It was framed in some black plumage, some silver trim around a waistline far too natural to quite fit the part, but the massive hat was a valiant effort that he also noted, also nodded at, as he stepped around the table, setting the fine camisole down, folded back to crisp perfection. She was the one who approached first, an admirable thrust of her pert bosom in the direction of his face that he was polite enough to allow a faint flicker of his eyes towards._

_Though he was certain such a look was the desired effect, he still had the impression that she wanted to give him a rather brusque dressing down regardless._

_“Good morning, and might I say it_ _is_ _a good morning indeed now that you two fetching young folk have entered. Is there anything I might direct you towards? I can tell you’re both possessing exceptional taste and I believe I might have just the cape to accompany such a magnificent dress... Is that a LaRue?”_

_“Yes,” she answered quickly, curtly, an imperious stride to her step as she brushed past him towards a rack of fine silk scarves he’d been fortunate enough to acquire in a trade when the merchants had flown in from down river. Setter silk they were, and likely out of her price range if she couldn’t so much as be bothered to learn the designer of her own dress._

_“By all means, if I can be of assistance in any way please let me know. You’ll note the Garak on the sign out front, that is me, Garak.” The “plain, simple” went unspoken as he stepped back ostensibly to tend to paperwork behind the counter but rather to observe them as they dismissed him out of hand._

_He allowed them that flimsy charade, seeing her only halfheartedly look, seeing the man gravitate towards shirts that were definitely not his color with an awkward manhandling of precious linen. It was enough to elicit a near audible sigh when he noticed the woman’s eyes flickering towards the mirror, to watch him in its surface. Ah, so she was watching him then, though to what aim he was not quite certain until his eyes lingered once more on the man making a complete mess of those shirts. Naturally his expression was kept to a placid grin, a grin he saw her interpret as interest no doubt when a triumphant little smirk appeared on her face. Somehow, Garak noted even her smile held an air of imperious authority that reminded him far too much of many a female Archon back home. It almost made him nostalgic, really._

_But curiosity caused him to play their little game as he stepped back out and approached the young man, certain to fix that chiseled face with the appropriate amount of fawning._

_“Now that, is a fine choice of a shirt, you’ve definitely a keen eye for quality, Mister...”_

_“Watters. Ca... Timothy Watters.” A near misspeak, a quick recovery hidden with the loud clack of heels from the woman drawing his attention just briefly. Garak could tell he was used to introducing himself in a far different manner. But he followed it up appropriately with another flash of a smile as he continued, holding out his hand in the custom of humans. “I’m from... that is we’re from Rush Valley.” Garak shook his hand, finding the grip firm, concise, an enlisted man if ever he saw one. And to the best of his knowledge, Westworld had no standing armies._

_“Ah, so you’re a native then,” Garak exclaimed just as he supposed he was expected to, and saw with a discreet glance the woman begin to circle behind him. He felt that old instinct, that pinprick between his should blades that he allowed to keep him on alert even as Watters grinned, flashing a wide smile surely intended to charm._

_“Yes I am, Mr. Garak. I’ve lived here my whole life. We both have, my sister Karen and I.” Garak allowed himself to be charmed as that hand lingered just a touch too long. Yes, his sister, of course. And Garak watched Watters’ “sister” in motion in the mirror, studying the inner walls of the shop carefully. “This is the first time we’ve had the pleasure of coming to Indigo.”_

_“And how are you finding our quaint little town so far?” Garak was almost surprised with how easily those words came, never particularly thinking of any place as his in true spirit since leaving Cardassia Prime._

_Watters took a step back in response, hands stopping short of clasping behind his back at ease, fingers curling just a bit uncomfortably with the effort of suppressing what Garak was certain to be a long learned gesture._

_“It’s stunning. It’s just as beautiful as I’ve heard told. But I haven’t been completely honest with you, Mr. Garak.”_

_“Oh please, no “mister”, just Garak,” he responded automatically finding himself faced with another disarming smile wondering if that flash of white teeth was all that the man had to offer._

_“Well Garak, you see, my sister and I have a bit of an interest in this building. I don’t know if you’re aware but this building used to be a rather famous site a few years back.”_

_“You don’t say.” Garak recalled Jake Sisko’s brief history but it hardly seemed a business of any particular note._

_“Oh yes, Noh-Jay Enterprises was famous in Rush Valley.”_

_“Quite famous,” the woman, Karen chimed in again from a different point in the store, careful to be seen only looking at handkerchiefs when making that agreement. Garak glanced at her briefly and decided that she wore congeniality rather like a sickness._

_“In Rush Valley?”_

_“Yes, definitely Rush Valley. It’s south of here.” Southeast if one were to split hairs, but beyond that,_ _Garak would have bet his life that neither of them could locate any city other than Rush Valley on a map. Of course there was no easy way to verify the claim without spending an extraordinary amount for a steam plane courier to verify with the local census office, and certainly not any time within the next few minutes. He almost thought it might warrant a follow up even so. Garak had it on good authority that the young O’Brien woman was unparalleled in her field but it seemed that she’d recently run off with her brother to the badlands; that was argument number thirteen if he recalled his O’Brien family dossiers._

_That would have to wait, however._

_“You’ll forgive me, but I can’t say that I know much of this building beyond a brief tour from the previous owner.”_

_“Nog!” Karen cut in with far too much familiarity instilled in that name. Garak watched her practically run to him before he could blink twice._

_“Jake Sisko,” Garak corrected gently. “And I certainly hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it is my understanding that Mr. Nog has recently passed, as I believe the human saying goes. I didn’t have the privilege of making his acquaintance.”_

_“Yes, the privilege,” Karen murmured with a sour purse of her lips that was likely the cause of Watters clearing his throat loudly._

_“We didn’t know Mr. Nog either. But we heard this building has some of the most advanced techniques in structural engineering that were used in the back and in the basement and we’d appreciate if we could just take a look, just a quick look is all.”_

_Now_ _there_ _was a warning bell if he’d ever heard one. Jake was quite clear on the rather practical nature of the construction, no amount devoted to beauty save for the trim on the outside. He was also quite adamant on the unremarkable engineering, really it was almost as if he were trying to keep Garak from even_ _looking_ _at it during their initial negotiation before Quark intervened. Still, he was hardly exaggerating. Had Garak been masquerading as a carpenter and not a tailor he might have been inclined to address that issue but he was in this deep enough and as much of a perfectionist as he was even_ _he_ _had his limits. And one of those limits was indulging foolish humans under such poorly contrived pretenses._

_“There is no basement,” Garak stated quite plainly as he set about fixing the pitifully refolded shirt on top of the pile._

_“We_ _know_ _there’s a basement, Mister Garak, the blueprint-“ That statement snapped off, quickly filed by Garak as he pretended not to notice._

_“Assuming there_ _is_ _a basement to be located- and I’m quite certain if there were I’d have seen some evidence of its existence. But if there_ _were_ _a basement I should think that it would be my privilege to have the first glimpse of it away from well meaning tourists.” Another pat smile, an equally fitting snarl on the woman’s face as she took a sep toward him. Clearly she was not used to being refuted so directly._

_“You have no idea what you’re-”_

_“Commander!” Sharply spoken by Watters, Garak watched her snap to attention immediately. However it was not that pathetic display of breaking character that immediately drew Garak’s attention but rather the unfurling of an innocuous linen to a fully grown Sheriff Odo. Were he prone to being startled, Garak was certain that he would’ve screamed the way Karen had, or jumped back drawing a completely useless phaser like Watters._

_As it stood, he merely watched as Odo stared the both of them down, his voice the same as the one he reserved for particularly nasty drunken brawls at Quark’s._

_“Yes, Commander Farris, if I were you I’d listen to your Captain and stand down.” That changeling face shifted ominously between the two of them. “I believe I advised you on the legality of this matter already but if there’s still an issue I’m sure I can explain it again at the sheriff’s office.” Garak noted the two of them regained their composure quickly enough standing up far straighter than before. Captain Watters lowered his phaser just as Command Farris raised hers._

_“Westworld is not a sovereign independent planet whose laws must be adhered to by Starfleet the same as others. And the importance of this matter is far more grave than one town’s authority.” Garak nearly applauded Odo’s pitying sigh._

_“Be that as it may, Commander, you’ll find that law down here tends to favor the one who wins the duel, and if you’d listened to Lieutenant Commander Nog, you’d know that weapon was practically useless the moment you arrived.”_

_Her jaw tense, she lowered her arm glaring furiously, stilled only when Captain Watters put a hand to her shoulder._

_“Of course, you’re right, Sheriff. Stand down, Commander. I believe we can leave Sheriff Odo, to explain to Mister Garak the gravity of the situation. You_ _did_ _say you would do that.” Not a question but almost an accusation. Odo was unmoved._

_“I do what I say I’m going to do, Captain Watters. I believe you and the Commander said you were going to wait until I had.”_

_“The Dominion is not going to wait around, Sheriff Odo. The Dominion is not going to wait while you try and reason with a Cardassian tailor!”_

_“The Dominion may not, but the two of you are or I’ll throw you in a holding cell myself. Assuming that the two of you are telling the truth.”_

_“How_ _dare_ _-”_

_“Let’s go, Commander.”_

_Watters was firm, already turning on a heel leaving Commander Farris to follow suit. Garak watched them leave, patiently waiting as the door slammed behind, Odo crossing around with a weighty expression._

_“You have my compliments, sheriff, I had no idea you’d such a talent for impersonating fine garments.”_

_“I am a man of many talents, Garak, much like yourself.”_

_“You give me far too much credit, sheriff. I’m simply a tailor with a rather unfortunate string of luck as of late.”_

_“Yes, these little episodes have a way of following you around, don’t they?”_

_“You know, the famous poet Galag was famed for his long life of misfortune. He made a career popularizing the Cardassian... Mmm... I’m not sure how one would translate the word without it losing the gravity, the sobriety of the term... Jadzia once referred to it with the dreadful portmanteau of “wode” but I just can’t bring myself to-”_

_“Garak.”_

_“Yes, Sheriff?”_

_“I didn’t come here to discuss Cardassian poetry with you.”_

_“A pity, Sheriff, Galag is known for his clever wordplay and vivid sorrowful imagery. I could perhaps suggest a reading or two you might be able to request when the youngest O’Brien returns for the holidays.”_

_“I’ll keep that in mind. But let’s get to the reason for my presence here. I had reason to believe those two would be paying you a visit. And while I have no doubt they are exactly who they claim to be, I’m not so sure about their intentions.”_

_“Starfleet officers never have anything but the noblest intentions,” Garak offered with a winsome look towards the door. Odo joined that look soberly._

_“Most of the evil in this world is done by those with good intentions.”_

_“Elliot?”_

_“Dax,” Odo replied curiously. Garak supposed it was one in the same at this point._

_“So tell me, Sheriff. What noble intentions do these two delightful young do gooders plan to send us to hell with?” And so Odo did._

 

And so it seems that Karen Farris will not let the matter rest so easily with that ill conceived subterfuge. Garak doesn’t see her at the window for long. He’s actually quite certain that she didn’t register his look either as carefully sidelong as it was, but she was gone just as soon as he convinced himself he wasn’t imagining things. He recalls the conversation with Odo vividly, almost haunting in its implications for the entire Alpha Quadrant should such a tale prove true. And should it prove not, it is either the clever machination of two rather gifted liars- which he’s witnessed first hand to hardly be the case- or perhaps the delusion of two rogue officers which is no less threatening to him personally. But even given that he’d rather either of those scenarios be the truth than the the ugly truth itself being that of an impending invasion by a monstrous force ready to break through the castle gates at a moment’s notice.

Ah, but Garak is nothing if not a painful realist and it is also that realist in him that decides to look down in that moment and catch Julian’s wrist hard. A pity, really. That mouth feels so good, so eager, so Gul’s damned _wanting_ that when he sees the fall of the small syringe, and feels the numbing cold on his stomach he almost has half a mind to just step on the thing, put his hands to the back of Julian’s head and keep fucking that hot mouth anyway. But no, he meets those panicked eyes with a rewarding little smirk, seeing the cotton ball, soaked no doubt in some local anesthetic, drop to the floor in a damp little ball. He meets those eyes with admiration for such beautiful duplicity even as he sighs and shoves his foot hard into Julian’s chest just enough to knock him on his back while he painfully lets his cock retract back miserable and wanting.

“My apologies, dear Julian,” he offers as those enhanced reflexes have Julian already crouched carefully, warily, rising to his feet without a single bit of apology. “I do hate to cut this delightful little game short, but I believe I have a far better use for those nimble fingers of your upstairs.”

“Up... stairs?” Julian parrots back dumbly, doubtless trying to determine what Garak’s game is now. Garak wonders if his eyes will dart to the discarded syringe, if his mind will remain locked to that singular task but instead he sees curiosity there instead. Julian is breathing hard, chest rising, falling, all that delectable smooth skin naked for his eyes as those heavy breaths pass wet swollen lips as he pushes those decorative spectacles back up thoughtfully. _Absolutely perfect. Yes, it seems as if this little mystery will need to be solved sooner rather than later and only will this “basement” be the key._

“Of course, my dear,” Garak says brushing past him without further invitation, feeling that electricity still sparking off him. “We have a door to open.”


	21. Haunted Ranch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door is open and the shit hits the fan. Danger awaits and Garak is ready to face it head on with Julian there for... moral support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit after deadline, doing a little better this week. also, we finally have some more action going on! Next Chapter as well might be a bit hair raising. Also, I did promise in the comments on the last chapter that yes, at the end of this arc Garak is getting him some hot Julian Bashir in the sack... or up again a wall or wherever haha. Anyway, thanks to everyone reading and hanging on for this crazy ride. Looks for this thing to go on for a damn long time with the upcoming arcs I have in mind. C&C always welcome, you guys rock!

The door swings open seemingly of its own volition and Garak finds the empty room that greets the two of them to be almost anticlimactic. No, not empty. In the center of the room stands a curious wooden pedestal with a closed box that piques his curiosity immediately, being the only thing in the room save for a door on the far side. Garak keeps that interest in check, knowing that it would hardly befit a man of his age and station to dash in like an overly enthusiastic child. He gives Julian standing next to him a small sidelong smirk, admiration in his voice.

“I must say, my dear, I am completely in awe of your lock picking prowess. It is a very useful if somewhat unexpected skill.”

“Unexpected?” Julian asks with a raised eyebrow. “You seemed to be expecting it when you asked me and my “nimble fingers” to give you a hand with the door.”

“Or perhaps that was merely a pretext for further sexual activity away from you and your delightful little toys.” To that he catches a faint darkening of Julian’s face before he takes a step into the room with a huff.

“Yes… well you know I-”

Julian holds out a hand quick, barring him from further entry. Garak sees his head turn sharply, as if hearing some sound that is nothing but silence to his own ears. Julian does not bid him be silent which in fact worries him if the sound requires such concentration, such concern, as to leave him speechless. Garak sees his eyes get wide, and thinks he can detect some faint tremor as well. Were it not for Julian’s immediate reaction he would think he were imagining it. But as it stands, he is ready when Julian grabs his wrist and yells a frantic “move!” Garak doesn’t know why he has the impulse to jump, but it is there seemingly seconds before that tug. He propels himself forward, and coupled with that hard jerk, the momentum nearly sends him flying through the air. A few stumbling steps when Julian releases his hand allows him to right himself awkwardly. 

Julian, Guls damned augment that he is, is far more graceful. A tuck, a roll over, sweeping back to his feet, and Garak nearly has an impulse to trip him mid flourish. He sees the twinkle in Julian’s eye, a push up of spectacles on his face that he swears is meant to be sultry, and Garak finds himself fast aroused once more. That comes just as the floor shakes, a massive thud reaching his ears, and with a quick turn, his stunned eyes catch sight of a long silver wall, glinting his own reflection back. He feels the quickening of his pulse as Julian steps next to him in an instant and he curses silently. _Of course you know it’s a sight more difficult to calm the body from such a heightened state for Cardassians compared to some others. Especially when one finds one’s self in an equally charged situation..._

Still, he is a trained operative, and he pushes that thought to the back of his mind letting it stir, letting it simmer for a time when he’s better able to attend to the problem.

“A guillotine,” he hears Julian breath out next to him and he sees those spectacles come off, the practiced motion of polishing the lenses on his rumpled shirt to reflect clear disbelief. It’s a rather engaging affectation, and as his heart beats quickly, that adrenaline surging. Garak has the rather embarrassing impulse to throw him right against the surface and continue where they left off. 

“A guillotine?” he repeats, watching Julian’s long fingers gliding carefully along the smooth side. He touches the cool metal himself, looking down, seeing the groove in the floor, that break in the wood planks not present anywhere else. He has an idea as Julian explains the ancient earth device, the blade designed to sever neatly.

Already Garak’s moving to the box, carefully observing the remainder of the room, seeing no other tells on the floor, catching sight of the open ceiling panel, seeing no others.

“What did you hear?” Garak asks, all business as he finds that the box is locked with a combination lock. He had made a rudimentary study of lock picking on this world, mostly by trial and error. He’s seen mostly keyed locking systems but has had some minor experience with padlocks; none so far have been successful. 

“I heard a mechanism, turning, something release, and I caught sight of the floor trench and well I don’t know that I’d call it a sixth sense necessarily but...” Julian looks and his eyes fall to the box with the built in combination dial. Those eyes dance again, his demeanor reminiscent of Jadzia, that mischievous look hardly shying away from danger but rather rushing headlong into it.

“Do you require my... nimble fingers again, Garak?” Julian teases him as he approaches the box. There’s that look slipping once more to the devilish, and this time there is no doubt in Garak’s mind that it is completely intentional. He wonders if he would set off some other trap if he took Julian right now against that cold metal blade. Garak catches that heat, that scent, intrigued at the equal arousal he still detects. Some adolescent part of his brain locked away, hidden, suppressed for far too many years bubbles to the surface just long enough to leave him with a fleeting glance to the front of those loose trousers as if he might discern even the faint outline of that-

“If I didn’t know any better, my dear,” Garak answers smoothly, not allowing even the faintest hint of that wayward lust to enter his tone, “I might almost think this was another attempt on my life.”

“I think you’re giving me far too much credit,” Julian says with another teasing grin back. “But as for this... now this I believe I can do something about, after all.”

Garak takes a step back just as Julian saunters over, standing in front of the box with a quick study. He really does not tire of watching that double blink, that fast process of that beautiful mind reflected brilliantly in equally stunning hazel eyes. In this light, in fact, they’ve turned from hazel, from pale, to almost emerald and he considers whether or not it is a trick of the light or some affect of his augmentation. Really, for all Garak knows of human biology, it might be a perfectly natural characteristic of that hue of iris. In any case, Julian merely smiles, self assured, just a mild cocky tilt of his head as he gets right to work. Garak is not certain what end game they will find upon opening the box, but he certainly suspects in piecing all information together that the door is the key to the basement he’d dismissed the existence of until this moment here. He also harbors no illusions of their solitude in this endeavor should that woman have been in close enough proximity to have heard that sound. 

There are no curtains. The daylight streaming in from midday is more than ample light to illuminate the room. The fallen blade was close enough to the doorway to have obscured none of the windows on the east and west sides. He’s certain anyone looking in from the proper angle could see the two of them clearly, and quite possibly the blade should the sun glint just right. _But that’s not the main concern. The sun won’t be far west enough to be an issue for at least another few hours. The issue is those two and you already know they have no qualms in ending your life or at least stunning it for the sake of saving the galaxy from some otherworldly threat. Humans and their noble quests are really terribly tiresome..._ There is, of course, one human who does not seem to be as noble as he first appeared. Garak’s mind flashing back to that needle in hand, that damp cotton, and curiously, he feels that point on his stomach finding it to be almost perfectly numb. He isn’t sure that the motion is undetected until he hears the voice answering the unspoken query.

“Spined scorpion venom,” Julian supplies, carefully turning the dial, ear to the box. “Numbs, paralyses, poisons... at least when injected into the bloodstream. Now see what I’m doing here you normally can’t do without the use of a stethoscope but well... I won’t tell if you won’t.” He gives a few more turns back. “Of course it’s not a scorpion proper. I mean, they share the subphylum chelicerata but actually they have ten legs, not eight, so rather than being a predatory arachnid- Ah, and there we go!” Julian takes a step back beaming as Garak contemplates the nature of the death he rather neatly avoided. _Assuming he intended to poison you, but let’s not be naive, Elim, a threat made during play is still a threat, and you knew the odds were likely that he would respond just as he had. One might almost say you were hoping to cultivate that sort of response just to test him, to see how far you could push him. Always courting death as Tain might say._ _She_ _always accused you of pushing, of trying to turn her into something else. You and her father... Now how can he maintain such a boyish exuberance not ten minutes after trying to murder you with your prick in his mouth?_

Julian practically bounces as he takes a step aside, opening the box to reveal two keys neatly pressed into a velvet lining. Skeleton keys, Garak’s mind supplies helpfully as he looks to the door on the far end once more. Likely one opening the door, the other perhaps a door below. _Whatever the case, you at least have some time while the two of them attempt to maneuver past the rather effective blockade. There can’t be more than two feet of clearance between the top and the ceiling. They might venture the window but that would have to wait at least until evening when the back of the building is dark. Odo will also be watching them as well so they might not even try anything without shaking him first._

“There’s more noise,” Julian says suddenly, and Garak quickly pockets the keys drawing back. He looks to Julian silently, seeing the turn of his head, watching him walk towards that door warily. “Timers,” is the answer, as Julian frowns. “I can’t be sure of the where or how but there’s some limit I’m sure of it. It’s the ticking of a clock face or another similar device, I’m almost certain of it. You’ve no intention of telling me what the devil is going on, do you?” 

Garak notices the slight back and forth sway, that bit of humming anticipation that accompanies that faint scowl. Even in his pique, there is an excited tinge, a sense of clandestine adventure that he’d though he lost his taste for until right at this moment. Garak approaches the door as well and finds himself smiling. 

“Tell me, Julian,” he answers conversationally as he tries the first key and finds the lock opens easily. “Are you familiar with the works of Parmalat?” Hand on the knob, he sees Julian shake his head.

“While there are hardly a shortage of books here, old and new I can’t say I have. Is that a Cardassian author?”

“Oh yes, indeed. One of the greats you might say. Ah, but great might be a somewhat subjective matter. Most of my colleagues in the tailor’s guilds back on Cardassia Prime swore they gave up on that sort of fanciful trash in their younger days. But as for me...” Garak allows the door to swing open grandly revealing a steep staircase. “I find his work to be rather inspiring.”

He is cautious as he peers down, eyes quickly adjusting to the growing darkness further down that stairwell. He can see that it curves. Not with a landing and a neat ninety degree angle like Rom’s, but with a perfectly arcing bow that intrigues him immensely. What he notices second of all is the lack of any sort of rail as far down as he can see but finally, the wood planks give way to metal steps that remind him so vividly of Parmalat’s third novel Steeped in Secrets that he already knows the secret therein. 

“My, my, it would appear the young Sisko is far more duplicitous and enterprising than I gave him credit for,” he murmurs as he debates invoking Julian’s ire by shoving him in there first. “I had no idea such technology was even possible on this world,” he says louder as Julian joins his study.

“Stairs?” Julian asks with such bright earnest that Garak’s carefully cultivated sarcasm detector is blaring warning bells that are almost tangible in his head. Yes, he’s definitely shoving him down there head first.

“Surely you’ve had opportunity to parse the young Sisko’s Come On Danger,” Garak offers already putting more pieces of the mystery together even as he keeps any sense of urgency from entering his voice. _An author familiar with all the works of Parmalat’s famous trap novels, a deceased engineer who you recall being told was trained by O’Brien and certainly his father both who have all the knowledge of any necessary mechanical conversions necessary to execute such engineering feats and you have what is likely an increasingly ludicrous underground full of traps, pitfalls, and death dealing devices. My, Elim, you really should be considering minimizing the injuries you’ll receive in jumping out the window rather than even dreaming of continuing such a reckless and pointless diversion. Mmm, reckless, pointless, damn desirable doctor right here just as eager, just as ready to go as they say and so help me you cannot_ _possibly_ _be going into this madness just to complete the deadly coupling interrupted downstairs._

He is, of course, and it perhaps does lend just a bit of credence to the concern that he’s been starting to lose his mind in his old age. That he’s lost “it”, that the spark, the zeal has been bled out of him into nothing. But looking at Julian, it’s hardly nothing, it’s a rather maddening drive for more, for excitement, for puzzles that he’s yet to conquer and foes far beyond some sniveling bureaucrats wetting themselves in a cell awaiting his arrival. 

“Jake’s book? Of course, I’ve read them all, though I’m surprised that you have considering-”

“I consider myself a student of the universe, my dear,” Garak declares grandly. “And while I found the work far too full of pointless sentimentality for my tastes, you still have at heart a touching tribute to one of Cardassia’s more popular authors. And this lovely staircase so prominently featured in Steeped in Secrets is a homey homage to the famous scene where Aldim triggers the trick stairs to slide rather neatly to a painful death impaled on a series of neatly sharpened protrusions. I’ve heard tell from some human critics that Parmalat’s obsession with impalement is indicative of a phallic symbolism but I’m afraid they’re coming from a biased viewpoint of-”

“Did you say ‘impalement’?” Julian interrupts him with a comically long extension of his neck through the doorway as if he might see the source of the mechanism to trigger such a feat.

“Quite,” Garak agrees primly. “And might I also add, that while your assertion of the noise that you hear is a timer is an educated guess, I would expand on that thought by speculating that it is not necessarily a timer set off by the opening of the box, but instead the delightful mechanical hum of your Westworld devices responding to a careful set of cues and triggers, perhaps timed like your elaborate geared time pieces. I’m afraid I owe you an apology as it seems that during the course of our ingress some improper action likely begun this series of unfortunate events.”

“You _knew_ this was going to happen!” Julian accuses him, that whirl of his head so quick, that it leaves his spectacles half askew with that motion. Garak feels an inappropriate titter of laughter in his throat. He beams back a winning smile.

“Perhaps you would care to go first, my dear?” Garak thrills at the indignant sputter, the affronted drawing up, and finds that warm simmer in his belly still smoldering quite hard. This is really not helping him move towards the wiser course of action, he decides. That though flits about uselessly for a moment before he snuffs it out.

“Are you mad?! Of course you’re mad! Just like Leeta said, the lot of you are bloody starkers! If you think for one moment that I’m-” Hot, wanting, excited, aroused. All those things his human body language confuses but his scent, his eyes don’t at all. Garak keeps that smile perfectly plastered on his face as he holds up a finger to his lips in the midst of Julian’s rather impressive tirade, pleased that little bit of human cultural conditioning works when Julian falls silent and also stills his body movements. Danger. Of course that’s what Julian believes, and what Garak wants him to believe as he waits, and leans in cautiously.

“The angle is steep so slow your descent on the walls. I have every faith in your ability, dear Julian.” And that is the Gul’s honest truth, should it ever be asked if Garak has, as _she_ once asked “ever told the truth one time in his wretched lying life.” He knows, just as he shoulders into Julian hard ,that the augment’s reflexes, strength, vision will keep him out of harm’s way and see him safe to whatever fate awaits at the bottom.

But one thing he hadn’t counted on, as Julian falls backwards into the darkness, is the hand which grabs his wrist in an unbreakable lightning grip, and drags him along for the ride.


	22. Night Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian and Garak make a hair raising landing and find themselves fumbling around in the dark. Some more than others, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's still Sunday night somewhere. In any case, I had a lot of fun with this chapter. I thought it would be interesting to take a little more advantage of the Alternate Reality aspect biology wise. So I messed about a bit with Julian's specifics as a genetically enhanced human and with Cardassian biology. It was a fun "what if" thinking the "spoon" on the Cardassian forehead might be akin to a snake's heat sensing "pit(s)". Heck it doesn't say anywhere that it doesn't do that. anyway, more suspense, less romance, but it will be coming. THank you all for reading and C&C always welcome!

“We’re deeper down than the basement.” Julian speaks the words so matter of factly that Garak is almost tempted to believe this to be nothing more than a dream. It is also entirely possible that the fall has killed them both; he has not yet ruled that out in its entirety. Though the likelihood that the afterlife would somehow involve a tangle of limbs with one Doctor Julian Bashir at the bottom of a precarious staircase seems improbable at best. _Perhaps it is that ancient mythical human notion of ghosts bound to haunt their final resting place and any unwary passers by as well. Was it Poe who spoke of shrouded forms that start and sigh? No, no shroud, though these clothes are likely ruined._ His shirt had been torn quite violently as the two of them tussled on the wild ride down.  

As soon as the steps felt their weight they’d flattened just as Garak imagined they would. But it had gone beyond that wild sixty degree tilt. Julian’s arms and legs had gone out and tried to lock but the angle, the extra weight of Garak crashing into him had allowed for nothing but an increasingly speedy descent. No, it was more than that. Julian had yelled frantically that he couldn’t grip the walls, couldn’t grip anything, and that slick substance comes to the forefront of his mind once more as he considers their fall to be far faster than normal physics should have accounted for. He has not yet figured out why Julian had chosen that moment to tear at his shirt and as his eyes adjust as well as they can to the darkness. It might as well be pitch black and though he has far better night vision than most, without any heat differential to fall back on, he finds himself lost. 

Garak thinks about this even as he makes no move. He is not aware of how motion could be detected without the aid of precious electronic systems, cameras, surveillance, but he has yet to scratch the surface of what may be possible with the use of that volatile aether as power. He also is aware that this is only the beginning. They might not have been met with a deadly barrage of sharp objects but there will be far worse to come. What is left is the matter of discerning the remainder. If he had any illusion of going back, he realizes now that their only option is to continue to the end and perhaps pray there’s a reset or another way out of this subterranean death trap. Garak considers Julian’s words, finding that even as slim as he is, that body is still rather nice and dare he say comfortable beneath his own.

“Yes, I believe you’re correct, my dear, though I cannot be certain as to just how far down we are. I fear that the only thing I was aware on on our somewhat unceremonious trip down were those nimble fingers of yours making a tatters of my shirt.” Neither of them offer any apology and beneath him he feels Julian shift, noticing that his arms are stretched far above his head. Only now do they carefully retract back down. Garak recalls that he felt a strange stop, a tense of Julian’s entire frame and curiously he reaches up slowly, cautiously past those outstretched arms. He realizes, of course, that Julian’s reach is far superior to his, and he sighs, deciding that mystery should be revealed shortly. He stops that attempt to check and decides that as invigorating as that was, as equally... refreshing as Julian’s body is beneath his own, it’s hardly conducive to any sort of coherent thought.

“Mercury slick,” Julian answers as if that should provide a satisfactory response to Garak’s lament of his ruined clothing.

“I see,” Garak answers, blinking, still seeing nothing. And though the highly developed frontal pit allows him to easily sense Julian’s heat signature, sense that extension of his arms, he can sense nothing else warm around them but the cool of the underground. That is until he turns his head to the right and senses a faint, terribly faint trace of heat coming from far away through Guls only know what sadistic obstacle course. He frowns deeply, trying to think of way to figure this out without the benefit of a light when Julian takes that silence as his cue to continue a warm ramble to fill that stillness. _Guls it’s cold in here._

“Mercury slick is an alloy that was developed on Westworld some hundred years back as an industrial lubricant mostly. Though nowadays you’d be hard pressed to find anything mechanical here that doesn’t use it. But it doesn’t dry out, see as long as it’s kept as temperature and it’s about the most slippery substance you’ll find.”

“Fascinating,” Garak murmurs absently, curiosity getting the better of him at last as he slowly crawls up Julian’s body to see just what it was that he’d been reaching for.

“Quite,” Julian agrees and Garak thinks he might sound just a touch breathless with that rather indelicate wriggle. “Especially when you consider that mercury vapor is highly poisonous to humans. I don’t know if studies have been done on Vulcans though I suspect it still is. I never had much chance to parse the studies from Cardassia on heavy metal poisonings, poisonings never having been much of an area of interest of mine, but you needn’t worry. The alloy was developed using the deposits of Sedinium found running throughout these mountains. Sedinium being the metal of choice for most of the construction on world here since they discovered that it...ah... did you know that snakes mate in this same manner?” That rising timbre of Julian’s voice nearly gives him pause, though not half as much as the hand which flies down suddenly to rest on his hip- on a rather sensitive point in fact- that makes him hiss.

“Yes... like that, I’d imagine but I don’t fancy a shag right here you understand though I-“ Garak tunes out Julian’s somewhat breathless babbling and remains silent if only to keep from responding in kind as that hand tightens, likely to hold him still, he thinks. But his attention is drawn away from that in an instant when his fingertips touch the sharpened point in front. He’s thankful that the tailor’s work these past few weeks has built up an impressive callous on that finger lest it break skin. He pulls back, realizing that Julian’s breath is right now warm on his neck, that head having turned into him rather than away as he squirms back down, careful not to bump their faces together. 

“Sharp little things, aren’t they?” Julian observes almost glibly. There’s a pause, concern quick to the forefront. “You’re not bleeding are you? I couldn’t quite make out the depth but I expect the intent might not have been to kill so much as to maim... maybe poison. I don’t know.”

“Well, you certainly have my eternal gratitude for not using me to break your fall, Julian. I admit, I hadn’t counted on the addition of this mercury slick into the equation. Well you seemed to have handled it admirably, I must say.”

“I’m an augment, Garak, not a bloody android!” Julian declares hotly. “I could’ve been killed you know! Do you have any idea how dangerous, how reckless, how _thoughtless_ that was?!”

“I suppose it lacked the forethought of a vial of scorpion venom, but one must work with the tools one is given,” Garak answers mildly, noting that Julian’s hand is still on that spot on his hip.

He fells Julian’s head turn, and hears that indignant huff. 

“You tried to kill me first, you know.”

“And yet here you are, willingly held in my vile clutches.” Garak lets his fingers trail down the inside of Julian’s forearm feeling a nice little shiver. “But as long as the list of egregious offenses I would relish delivering onto your person is, there’s a far more pressing issue.”

“You’ve broken my glasses,” Julian protests sounding far more put out over a vanity pair of spectacles than he’d expect. 

“You have my word, my dear, that upon the end of our ascent out of the mouth of Hades I shall buy you a new pair.” He feels a heavy sigh beneath him, and to his surprise, he feels that hand move and feels Julian roll them both, a shuffling likely to his knees. It makes him wonder just how much Julian can actually see down here.

“You know, you’ve surprised me so many times with your insight, I half expected you to know but that’s on me, I suppose.” Garak sits up as he senses Julian rise to his feet. “True, I don’t need them to see but I _do_ need them, Garak. Starfleet had them made. Ah... that is Miles made them using Starfleet equipment. I don’t know if they could even be made here and I’d be afraid to try and replicate them even. They hide my eyes. That is, the lenses scatter the light so that you can’t see the eye shine even if you look past the lenses That’s what they call it anyway. I’m sure there’s animals on your world that have it... the night vision. The tapetum lucidum. Well choroidal tapetum cellulosum if we’re splitting hairs but the point is it’s a damn dead giveaway when the light hits them right and those glasses were the only thing hiding them!” 

“You shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions, my dear,” Garak answers as he too rises to his feet. “So far the evidence has only presented that they’re missing.” He takes a corrective step, feeling the crunch at the same time that he hears it. “ _Now_ you can be sure that they’re broken,” He offers to the darkness, unable to help that baiting.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Julian shoots back sarcastically. “You’re right. You’re not trying to kill me, you’re just trying to drive me completely mad until I kill myself.” Garak senses more motion from Julian towards the wall on the other side of the stairwell. “I’m sure there’s a light if we can find it,” he says echoing Garak’s thoughts. _Yes, and no doubt some other trap as well._ He cannot help but be impressed with Julian’s calm. Augment or no, hunted or no, there’s some other driving influence behind those steady nerves. They’re steadier than his in any case as he begins to feel the walls closing in. He’s not sure his inability to see is making the situation better or worse. He certainly hadn’t imagined, in any case that when he began this morning with a quick read of the paper and a large pudding and biscuit that he’d be trapped in a coffin beneath the earth. _Yes, the earth which could easily crumble and fall in at any moment. The unreliable dirt, this space where the air is stale and stuffy, and you’ve a useless staircase to your front and a Gul’s damned probably poisoned peril to your rear. By the State, Elim, you knew your curiosity was going to be the death of you someday but not by a slow suffocating, crushing, stifling-_

“Garak?” He thinks he hears Julian’s voice though he isn’t sure as he tries to think of anything else to take his mind off the tightness in his chest as his heart starts to race unwittingly.

“I didn’t... didn’t hear you, Julian. Can you... can you... say that again,” he says mortified at just how unsteady that was. _You’re not going to die. Calm. Focus. He may not be an android, but he certainly had enough present, enough quickness, agility to use your shirt to catch past the points so he can see and... and you certainly are not standing here waiting for a doctor, for a human_ _civilian_ _to save you? No. No, of course not, just pull yourself together and listen to what he is saying so you can get out and never ever go into another locked room as long as you live, as long as you can still breathe, breathe, breathe!_

“Garak, _breathe_!” Julian is shouting at him, hands on his shoulders and his own hands clamp over them tightly with a fast defensive hiss.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Garak insists prying those hands off, that instinctive terror warring with anger, with rage against his own helplessness as he almost forgets himself and takes another step back. “You were saying? I’m _fine_. You were _saying._ ”

“The light,” Julian blurts out, the breeze that Garak feels indicative of some gesture. “There’s a gaslight there if you’ve a-“

“Don’t,” he all but growls, that sense of true danger for that moment overriding the irrational. “Certainly, _doctor_ , you of all people should know living on world of the mining gases, of the firedamp, of all those things that a match would set off now _think_. There has to be another light. Aether... right? A chain? Can you see a chain? Anything in this... this space?” He nearly swallows his own tongue. It feels thick and heavy in his mouth as as wary as he is of taking too many steps, he knows that it could not possibly be so simple. _Yes, the puzzle. The game, the traps. Focus on them. Focus on them alone, Elim. You remember how to focus. You remember how to keep the mission in sight, by the Guls, you know how to_ _not_ _die._

Yes, he does. He might not remember how to not panic but he knows how to turn that adrenaline, that hyper mode of thought productively and he has a tool in front of him. _Yes. That’s what you are, Julian. You’re a tool here. I don’t need your comfort. I don’t need your words, I need your abilities, your body, that’s what I need. I need to use you._ He thinks that clearly, brilliantly, calling that training back to mind as he considers surely that even the chain for the aether light would have to-

“Yes, I see it. Er, _them_. I see them,” Julian corrects and Garak focuses on the heat signature in the dark and lets that sense of heat banish the cold back. 

“How many are there?” he asks, voice steady, clean, calm. He can hear the uncertain pause from Julian but he has his answer.

“Three.” _Yes, three. Three like_ _Under the Red Moon_ _. Which means that one opens the ceiling and one opens the floor._

Garak doesn’t need Julian to look to confirm it. He _knows_. He knows that just as he knows that he will _not_ die here. 

“One will turn the light. One will release the ceiling to crush us and the third will release the floor to open, though given the construction and the limitations on world I’m certain at least it wouldn’t be a pit of chittering rats...”

“Did you say a pit of _rats_?”

“ _Chittering_ rats,” Garak corrects enjoying at moment of much needed _schadenfreude_ at Julian’s obvious distress. “Though I don’t imagine that they’re too dissimilar from your transplanted Earth rodents. I must amend that; I believe that the only fatal form of rot sickness is transmitted through their saliva.  I’m also certain they’re a good bit larger than what you humans would call rats. I’m sure you’d hear them regardless, the noise they make is-”

“Garak,” Julian interrupts with an unsteady voice. “One more word about rats and so help me I will pull this chain on the left whether it kills us or not.” Although Garak thinks that being bitten to death by vermin would be infinitely preferable to a slow wasting crushing death in this tomb of dirt and stone, he magnanimously complies focusing once more on the puzzle at hand

“Is there a signature to the aether? Anything that you could sense through the cable? It’s metal, isn’t it? The same as in Rom’s?” 

“It’s the same alright, but aether isn’t anything like an electric current. The three of these feel the same to me. I don’t suppose you have a guess?” Julian’s voice is entirely too hopeful but Garak does in fact, have a rather good guess. _In the novel of course it actually_ _is_ _the left cord that opens the door to the hidden room behind the master suite but would they follow the same course?_

That’s the question, of course, and while so far none of the setup has deviated much from Parmalat’s classics, there’s always that one variation, that one break in routine where one leasts expects it. _And you could stand here all day cold and unsettled and be no closer to an answer now could you? And the walls will keep closing in even if you can’t see them. At least with the light, at least with that Gul’s damned light you’ll know. You’ll be able to_ _see_ _and stop leaving this to your imagination._ Garak frowns deeply, feeling that cold once more on his bare skin as he looks in Julian’s direction.

“Well, Julian, are you a gambling man?” He asks far more conversationally than he’s really feeling. He senses a shift in that heat signature; an awkward back and forth shuffle if he had to imagine it.

“I can only guess at the stakes should I lose, but I suppose if you’re right, my life is as good a prize as any.”

“Now don’t sell yourself short, my dear. As Quark would say, double or nothing. If I’m right you have my word I’ll get you a new pair of those fetching spectacles. I have an old acquaintance on Cardassia Prime- a fellow craftsman if you will- who can certainly handle the matter with the utmost discretion.”

“I’m holding you to that, Garak.”

“Really, it sounds as if you don’t trust me at all,” Garak says with mock astonishment before smirking in the blackness. “Truly, you’re a man after my own heart.”

“Lucky me,” Julian murmurs more to himself. Another moment passes by while Garak wills himself not to pass out. 

“Ah, but I’ve kept you waiting long enough. I would be lying if I said I didn’t have a soft spot for the dramatic tension of the moment.”

“And we both know you never lie.”

“Never,” Garak agrees as he swallows down a faint wave of dizziness. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to pull the left chain after all, I believe I’ll owe you a new pair of glasses.”

And Garak has to admit that he’s quite proud of himself for not passing into blissful unconsciousness when Julian does just that.


	23. Crossfire Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lights are on but what now? More perils await and maybe a tender moment or two as well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In before midnight, booyah. Though if it wasn't for picking up a new ST book it would've been earlier still... Anyway, more action little more bonding and a few paragraphs that took way too much research to write. Next week we're out of the frying pan and into... who knows! No real warnings here. Thank you all for reading and commenting! C&C is always welcome!

“My God, are you alright?!” Julian’s voice follows a startled gasp, an intake of breath so sudden and violent that it makes Garak imagine for a moment that he’s swallowed a bug. He sees Julian looking at him in the blue faint blue basting of light and he supposes he’s worn his agitation far more obviously than he’d intended. He also imagines that the incipient drop of body temperature is not aiding that impression. Garak can practically _feel_ the pale of his skin, of the ridges around his eyes like some unflattering death pall. _Well, be thankful that you haven’t passed out, Elim._ Yes, he’s terribly thankful to remain in this discomfiting state of scrutiny as Julian comes closer, examining his face with a searching physician’s gaze.

“Well it may have been some time since I was able to make use of a proper exercise module,” he begins, indicating his bare chest which in actuality shows little sign of such leisure since moving here. “But I assure you, doctor, all physical parameters should be perfectly normal for a man my age. Did I ever tell you that a physician once told me I was an absolutely remarkable specimen?” He manages a smile and that only deepens Julian’s frown.

“That was me. Fifteen minutes ago when you weren’t pale as a sheet.” He holds out a hand, Garak unable to help but look behind him, glances past him to find a hallway stretching the length of what must be half the town by his estimation. The length of that narrow tunnel does little for his color, even if it _is_ a construct of metal and not mere dirt. 

“Perhaps the lack of sunlight disagrees with me,” he offers.

“Give me your hand.”

“Really, Julian, I’m always eager to finish what I start but perhaps this is not the most appropriate of venues.” Julian snatches his wrist before he can react and he feels two fingers press to the inside. 

“I suppose if I ask you what the normal Cardassian heart rate is you’ll tell me you’ve no idea.” He lets go looking adorably sour.

“ _You’re_ the doctor, my dear, not I.”

“Spare me,” Julian answers with a trailing mumble that Garak doesn’t catch. He takes a deep breath, slow, steady knowing that if he can find some other focal point that he can push the rest from his mind. He ignores for the moment Julian’s head shake, seeing him instead begin a visual examination of their surroundings. That’s all well and good in his estimation as h focuses on the stairwell, the useless exit that he can at least trick his mind into believing a viable egress if for no other reason than to maintain a tenuous grip on his sanity. _And there’s an exit. you_ _know_ _there’s an exit because there’s no way all this trouble would be placed for a dead end. You’ve one other key to use, after all and if Odo is to be believed there is a path to treasure, a treasure to turn the tide of a war which has yet to occur if those two are to be believed. Now if only the Gul’s damned walls would stop-_

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Julian’s voice interrupts those thoughts bringing a sickening lurch back to his stomach. Garak has half a mind to tell him that anyone he’s ever known to have uttered that phrase- himself included- has always taken a rather perverse satisfaction from delivering said “bad news”.

“Come now, Julian, what other ill could possibly befall us in this bounteous cavern of wonder and delight?” He realizes, of course, that as soon as he speaks the words that he’s yet to turn around or so much as budge that ramrod straight position he’s adopted since the light have come on. In fact, now that he allows himself to more fully process the length of the long wall he notes that the entire right side is an endless row of sharp poles. And once he realizes that fact, it only takes a moment for that sickening sense of innate premonition to kick in, bringing that afternoon’s impromptu lunch, impromptu to the back of his throat. He swallows it back down.

“The walls are moving,” Julian states with far too much calm, looking past him. Garak feels that smile on his face crack to an almost manic grin as he counts to three while mustering the will to turn around and face the damn things head on. _Of course the walls are moving, Elim. Why wouldn’t they be moving? Why wouldn’t this maddening trap novel come to life have a moving subterranean wall of death? Shame on you, Elim, you should have noticed that from the start._

“Are they now?” Garak asks, voice just barely holding steady as he turns fully around to face that wall of imposing impending impalement. There he sees his shirt, the tips of a few points poked through towards the ground where Julian extended to keep them both from certain peril. He sees those lined in neatly staggered rows down as far as the eye can see from floor to ceiling. He takes an automatic step backwards, off of Julian’s crushed spectacles deciding in a moment devoid of anything resembling self preservation that with that final step he just very well might stand rooted there and stop moving entirely. His legs, in fact are finding that a rather appealing idea as Julian brushes past him to the wall on his left opposite the hall.

“I actually don’t think that you can see it. It’s just the one side though,” Julian answers, completely unaware that yes, Garak can very much see it, vividly in his imaginings, closing in more and more and not just the one side, but the entire thing, compressing tighter and tighter until it crushes his chest into a painfully rapid heartbeat that nearly makes him faint. 

“Oh yes... yes... moving.” Garak agrees as he debates whether or not looking at the ceiling will induce any vertigo. Instead he follows Julian and sees, thankfully a distracting puzzle instead.

“I’m sure you can’t,” Julian says as he stands in front of a wooden wall with ten randomly placed little square doors. “I can hear it. Faintly. quite faintly, really. They must have lubed the entire mechanism... it’s really quite impressive when you consider the scale of the operation in this section of town but in fact you have... Garak?” Julian ceases his examination and Garak almost curses his damn augment’s hearing for likely catching his increasingly agitated breaths. 

“You have the entirety of my attention, my dear I assure you.”

“I’m going to ask you again if you’re alright and this time you’re going to tell me the truth,” he says with a crossness that’s particularly endearing. “Are you alright?”

“I suppose I must confess to a severe intractable agitation when the decor is this bland.” He blinks only once, slowly, slowly enough that in one eye shutter he watches Julian’s expression turn from silver to dark black.

“Are you serious?” Julian takes a step towards him softly.

“It’s my innate sense of aesthetic, my dear. You see, we Cardassians are imbued with an impeccable eye for color and design. It’s both a gift and a curse but tell me, have you ever the chance to visit Terok Nor?” Julian opens his mouth and Garak rushes past him to those nine little doors, each no larger than a post card. He doesn’t give Julian the chance to answer as he examines them carefully. “It’s the absolute height of Cardassian station engineering and architectural ambition.”

Garak is certain that there is more that he says and while he knows his memory will retain the words in that secondary layer to easily call upon them later should the need arise, he lets that dialogue flow absently spinning the story effortlessly, deciding if he concentrates on the puzzle that he can ignore the remainder of the entire miserable situation. _Recall now, a similar puzzle. But that puzzle relied on light sensors and you know that things on this world must confirm to certain scientific rules. At least as far as you know nothing, save for the aether substance, has yet to contradict any of them. But here it diverges for there should be twelve, and you didn’t catch sight of any slits along the wall where there would be the poison tipped projectiles. And what would the pattern uncover exactly? You’d be a fool to trigger these but perhaps like the gas lamp they’re here as a diversion..._

Garak considers all of this just as he glances to the floor and sees the seam where the split would occur. Morbid curiosity leads him to wonder if not rats then what could possibly lurk beneath that space. And now that he looks up he sees the outline of an opening on the ceiling with doubtless content to maim. Julian’s words echo back that the wall is moving and he still doesn’t detect it. But if that is the case then-

“Can’t believe you’re still taking the piss,” he catches Julian mumbling and he realizes that he’s stopped speaking. Garak’s hands are still, hovering above the upper middle door, the small polished knob just barely large enough for a finger to grip and slide. He hadn’t realized that he’d stopped talking or that he’d even moved s a matter of fact and that troubles him. Garak takes a deep breath as Julian snaps at him ever the consummate doctor. “This is serious, Garak, this is _not_ the time for lies and misdirection. If you’re not well if you...” He trails off and Garak prays all too soon that will be the end of the matter.

“There is _always_ time for lies and misdirection,” he informs Julian pedantically just a minuscule motion revealing that the door would slide to the right.

“It’s the space, isn’t it?” Julian asks far too perceptively and Garak against every instinct opens the small door, feeling a click into place. There is a moment of utter silence, of complete stillness before a sliding noise prompts him to turn just in time to see a metal wall slide down to block the once open stairwell. _Though given the properties of this substance it would seem nearly impossible to climb up it but if the walls are truly moving..._ He cuts that line of thought off quickly and drops his hand before it can cause him any more trouble. He isn’t even sure why he did that and that troubles him greatly. “Garak,” spoken softer, calmer, far more irritating in fact and whatever good intentions Julian has, this is hardly the time for them.

“You say the wall is... moving?” Garak hedges cautiously, still trying to see if those spikes, still a good foot from him, have crept any closer.

Julian nods and though Garak finds it a comfort to stare at the mocking red “X” that the door has revealed rather than the remainder of the closed off space, he turns back to Julian. He sees the aether catch those eyes, the spectacles off his face and he realizes that light is uniquely suited to reflect the eye shine that Julian spoke of. He keeps his face neutral- or as neutral as one might given the near panic that has settled nicely into the back of his mind- as he silently admires the reflective glint, green, glowing when they catch right. A shame, but he supposes it really _is_ too much of a giveaway. Garak picks up the spectacles, seeing the bend of the bridge and the shattered right lens as Julian curiously walks around him to the doors. 

“You needn’t panic. Er... not yet that is,” Julian amends as he studies the wall. “By my estimation it should be another hour before it... before there is... cause for concern,” he finishes delicately. 

“And by then we should be well clear,” Garak agrees, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping the broken frames. He’s far less confident than he was a short time ago, the puzzle- it is even _is_ a puzzle, throwing him off balance. Julian, for his part seems maddeningly calm given the information that he’s just revealed and though Garak’s training has well instilled in him the folly of haste- of panic- there’s that funny bit of his ingrained physiological process that seems unable to comprehend that this is _not_ that closet and there’s no one outside the door ready to punish him should he dare make a sound. Garak can’t help but find the appreciation for that fact darkly humorous given that this is by any objectionable means a far more dire situation. 

He’s about to ask Julian to move aside again since this _is_ his problem solving burden to bear, after all when Julian smiles, a wry twist of his mouth as he shakes his head.

“Xs and Os,” Julian says with a soft chuckle that Garak finds irrationally annoying. 

“You’ll forgive me, Julian, but I thought _I_ was the one allegedly on the verge of madness.”

“Oh you are, Garak,” Julian says with another laugh. “That’s my official diagnosis as a medical professional, but this _, this_ is an amazing stroke of luck in fact. You see I actually taught this to Nog. Well, Nog and Jake, actually. It’s a silly child’s game. Xs and Os. You see you make a grid of nine squares and each player takes turns marking an “x” or an “o”, the object being to be first to make a row of three and Nog,” Julian declares triumphantly, “is always the “o” and so you see, the “x” triggered the door to close.” 

Garak feels a tightness in his smile but really, it’s a terribly petty thing to begrudge Julian. He lets it go studying the grid more carefully this time. 

“So this is a game then.”

“Yes, and it’s a game that Nog almost always wins. An incredible feat considering the simplicity of the game and the seeming chance but Nog always has had a good head for numbers. Now see, the total number of terminal board positions is one hundred thirty eight. But with Nog always playing “o” that narrows it to forty four. And now here, with the x in this position this is an amateur move but I’d wager anything...” He carelessly pushes the center door open to reveal an “o” and Garak thinks that he’s never come closer to a heart attack in his life. Julian grins at him and that answering smile is frozen on Garak’s face. “You know,” Julian continues with frightening aplomb as he looks at the wall. “I used to read a lot when I was a child. I think one of my favorite authors that my father handed down to me, a good old British author, Mr. Roald Dahl.

“Matilda was a fantastic book but you know what always stuck with me?” Julian examines the squares again.

“Do tell,” Garak encourages, equal parts mystified and horrified. He feels as if he’s watching the entire macabre display from outside his body entirely. Julian pauses before making a careful selection of the bottom right corner revealing another “o”.

“The Trunchbull... that the em... well I suppose it doesn’t matter who she was in this context but she had this device she would lock the students in called the “chokey”. Awful thing really this narrow cupboard with broken glass on the walls and nails on the door. This rather reminds me of that you know.”

“Does it now...” Garak murmurs absently thinking that it’s a blessing that Tain had never thought to add any accouterments to that damned closet. “You know, Julian,” he says when he sees Julian going for another corner box. “I would hate to think that the somewhat dull matter of our good health might put a damper on this exciting adventure but-“

“I know what I’m doing, Garak,” Julian answers him with a serious turn to his face. He puts a hand on Garak’s shoulder, looking him in the eyes. Garak sees him make a quick flick of his sight away, as if that gesture makes him uneasy but after a moment he maintains that expression and leans in slowly. It’s painfully slowly, really, but Garak finds that his heart starts to calm strangely even with Julian’s face coming nearer. Perhaps that is because the tilt of Julian’s head is not the sideways passionate twist but rather a tip of his forehead, pressing that smooth human forehead against his own. That heat to the sensitive pit almost fires off into a sensory overload but it is that very overload that draws him back from the terror that’s gripped him. “I’ve got this,” Julian whispers with a close of his eyes that prompts Garak to follow suit. He really almost believes that and lets the warmth travel between them, letting that receptor perceive the warmth to the rest of his body calming him.

“The odds are good of my selecting the proper door,” Julian whispers. “And if I choose wrong I can quickly chose right and you have my word that I will get us through this.” _Your word? Oh my dear Julian, you have no idea, how little weight such words, such silly lying things hold for anyone. And yet I almost think that you believe that. Games, games, Elim. Was he really trying to kill you after all? Ah these noble humans, these Federation do gooders. Unless of course this is a trick to get your guard down and until you can properly assess the dosage of that syringe... But you can be sure of one thing at this moment and that is mutually assured survival. Either you both live or you both die. Of course the truth doesn’t matter, you know that better than anyone. The lie is what will let you survive and if he cares enough for your life to risk his own..._ Then naturally he would go beyond even that moral duty to save Garak’s life, wouldn’t he? That strong, fast, smart augment...

Garak takes a deep breath, that warmth still flowing through him, that closeness adding some much needed clarity and calm. He reaches up, taking Julian’s wrist carefully, removing his hand and carefully threading his fingers between until their hands touch, palm to palm. 

“This is a kiss, you know. So if there is one thing that you might remember, amidst the stories it is the honesty of the body, I believe it’s called. Is that something you’re familiar with? I thought you humans had that saying after all. That is the only way that I can offer my most heartfelt apology.” And as he speaks he feels the tremble faintly from the tips of Julian’s fingers. That feels rather nice, actually. “If that is acceptable... Julian.” He makes careful use of that name, of that inflection and feels a short little nod.

“Yes... yes, of course,” Julian agrees eagerly as he takes a quick step to the board. He doesn’t quite continue though, at least not before letting a soft laugh escape. 

“This fucking lizard,” Garak thinks he hears him mutter and draws himself up just a bit proudly as Julian goes for the upper left to complete the line. “Two questions,” Julian announces as he turns his head to Garak with a flick of that door. “You owe me two questions, you know.” 

 

And that is when Garak sees the “x” revealed beneath that door, and the wall start to move.


	24. Crossed Clues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is light at the end of the tunnel of a sorts and a few truths come to light as well. Now if only Garak can get out of these damned underground hideouts!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I agonized over this one since I'm worried it might be confusing. I'm hoping that it pulls the last few chapters together, maybe, hope hope. Anyway, starting to lead into the next arc and damn is it hard not to spoil my own plots but I will keep mum about who's appearing and what's happening. This chapter mostly talking but no real warnings except possibly an affront or two to Garak's dignity. Thank you all for continuing to read and support me! C&C always welcome.

This is certainly not how Garak envisioned his death. His legs wrap tightly around Julian’s waist, his arms around Julian’s neck, over his shoulders. He does not allow himself the indignity of recalling the ridiculous name that Julian had given this position. No. He will _not_ do it. It’s a child’s position surely, and if there are Cardassian children who engage in such horseplay they enjoy a childhood gaiety that was long lost to him. But Julian had made a quick flick to the last two feasible doors revealing the “o”s to whatever conclusion, and then begged Garak this indulgence. And with the wall closing in, Garak put his life and dignity in Julian’s hands and jumped on his back, holding on for dear life when that sprint started. 

_Enhanced reflexes, enhanced strength to a degree, but the speed at which we are moving now surely must rival the most elite of human runners._ Julian, even with Garak on his back runs like the proverbial wind. If there are any poisoned projectiles to be found then Garak has no doubt that they’ve been left in the dust so to speak. He sees the wall coming closer and he tries to shrink closer as much as he can without hindering Julian’s long strides. Garak has given up on the idea of shutting his eyes, the wild motion making him nearly sick, and he instead looks ahead to a door in the distance only praying to the State, to the ancients, to anyone who might answer, that they clear this before the wall melds them into one permanent mass. He’s certain that Julian must’ve easily run the length of the town but that could also be his perception completely knocked askew. Garak doesn’t question it and he’s certain that he’s stopped breathing as well. Julian seems to be breathing enough for the both of them anyway.

Though perhaps that isn’t the best tact since he can feel his head start to swim as that door comes into full view, and Julian is nearly forced into the wall. Garak lets out a breath, then draws another as soon as he realizes that he’d already expelled all the air in his lungs. And it is in that slight raise of his head that he catches sight of the small cubby that’s opened next to the doorway with two bright keys. It’s dangerous and insane and he’s not sure if his reaching would offset the delicate balance that Julian has. The door is almost within reach, and already Garak is pulling his arm in to Julian even tighter. 

“K-Ke,” is all he can stammer, his jaw locked suddenly, a shiver racking his body. But it is enough for Julian as Garak curses that moment of frailty, and he sees the hand grabs the keys just as they dive through that opened doorway into yet another damned darkened room. 

Julian grabs a chain, at least that’s what it seems and a light comes on, aether by that faint bluish cast. He sees that glint of emerald eye shine, emphasized quite spectacularly with the aether and he refrains from commenting. But he does open his mouth, taking sight of nothing else but a square room that’s far too small and a wooden ladder leaned up against the wall. The moment he does, Julian’s hand is over it, Julian crossing in front of him quickly raising a finger to his lips. Garak nods in understanding wondering what’s going on when the the keys are carefully placed in his hand. He pockets them as Julian moves slowly, non threatening to bring his mouth to Garak’s ear cupping a seal, his voice even after that precaution barely above a breath.

“Can you hear me at this volume?” he asks, and Garak nods. “I can hear them above us,” Julian continues and Garak must admit the moisture condensing from Julian’s spent breath is tickling his ear somewhat uncomfortably. Still, he has far better self control than to squirm, and he shuts his eyes, letting his focus come solely to Julian’s voice, not allowing that fear to grip him. Especially not when he hears a startled hiss of “Nog!” _Nog. The dead Ferengi Starfleet officer. The mastermind behind all this no doubt, I’d bet my life on it._ He already has, really when he thinks about it, thinks about the last few harrowing moments leading up to this hard earned respite. And this is just one more piece fitting into the puzzle as Julian continues on. “Ferengi can hear as well as I can. Possibly better. I can hear them above me speaking in their normal tones. If we speak louder they’ll hear. I think you need to hear this Garak. Perhaps we ah... that is _you_ can decide from there how to approach this.” _Yes, yes of course. Smart words for a doctor, shrewd, calculating. Are you really just a retired Starfleet medical officer? You’ve ben strangely calm this entire time, Julian, and there are a million other little clues that are making me wonder just how much more there is to you than I already know._

Garak simply nods and remains still as Julian continues to speak.

“Nog is saying that there should be more noise than this, Jake... Jake!...” Julian clears his throat. “Nog and Jake. The two of them.  But there should be more noise. Moogie- that’s a Ferengi word, God, that means Leeta then.” Garak tenses in spite of himself curious about that statement. Somehow Julian senses it, a smile sounding in his voice. “She raised him, you know. Long story, that. But they seem to think something is amiss. Screams, there should be screams. The wall was triggered. Moogie let me know the moment the first trap fell. She’s been watching, keeping track of the triggers that are linked to... God, this is all under Rom’s...” Garak’s mouth quirks, amused at Julian’s indignant tone that his clandestine little spying hole wasn’t the sole illicit occupant. “It has to be down deeper. And we’re deeper still...” Garak swallows hard willing him silently not to dwell on the depth of their imprisonment. _Ladder, there’s a ladder right there, Elim. You’re a few minutes’ climb to the cellar, to the clean air and you’re in no danger of the walls caving. They’re solid, you saw that. Focus already!_

“There should be screams. If they’re down there, they have to be dead. There’s no way they could have set the wall off and run that length. It’s not possible... Jake cannot believe they’re dead. They’re quarreling over this now. Jake questioning Nog’s methodology. No one was supposed to die of course but what was he supposed to do...” Garak sighs at the convoluted recall and pulls away. He still doesn’t dare open his eyes but turns by feel, by instinct and in a mimic of Julian’s earlier action gives a quick whisper. 

“Narrate it, if you would please,” he requests hurriedly and feels a faint vertigo as the two of them step around each other. Garak notices then a slight misstep to Julian’s movement that he almost writes off but instead lets remain floating there, a careful bookmark as Julian resumes his speaking, doing a rather admirable impersonation of a Ferengi accent in Federation Standard.

“You do not understand what is at stake here, Jake.  They have already killed the others under orders. You know that Red Squad was special, but you do not understand what that meant for some of them. What that meant for Watters and Farris. I should not even be _telling_ you any of this Jake. You are a civilian and these are things that even I should not be privy to.”

“I think we’re a bit past that point now, Nog. Any anyway, we can’t... if they’re dead then we need to tell Odo. We need to alert Starfleet, we need to-”

“This is not about Starfleet, Jake, this is Section 31. I didn’t even think that it existed. I thought that it was nothing but a rumor, but it wasn’t. That was my mistake of course  and I cannot afford to make any more. Not with what is at stake. You have to understand that we encountered an enemy out there. I started to tell Moogie, but had to stop. I couldn’t do that. Not after what she’s been through and knowing this, and seeing these, it’s coming Jake. I do not know how much longer we have but there have been signs through the wormhole near Deep Space Nine. We don’t know enough about them yet or... or they might, but they aren’t telling us. The Kironide we found was Platonian Kironide. The legend stuff. Except that it is not a legend. It is real and it is dangerous. Section 31, Watters, Farris, they want to use this to fight the Dominion, to develop human weapons against the enemy.”

“Like Doctor Bashir?” Garak expects a swallow, a tell as Julian repeats those words but there is nothing. Again he files that away.

“Doctor Bashir is not a weapon, Jake. And Doctor Bashir has... thoughts... has a mind. They are afraid. I... I understand that. You have never seen the likes of these creatures. They are far more ferocious, far more dangerous, more ruthless than any Klingon. They are _monsters_. There were only eleven of us alive, Jake. You cannot imagine what I had seen to come to that point. I have nightmares about it. I cannot sleep. I see it when I close my eyes. I can still hear them. I... I could not burden Moogie with that. Not with everything she’s been through. The war will never come here. And if it does, they cannot fight as we know how to fight. They will die like everyone else before them. But the rest of the Federation is not so protected. Watters wants to give the Kironide to Section 31. I do not know how early it started but I intercepted a communication. Watters was careless. He and I had argued. It is too dangerous for anyone to have, for the Federation to have. Better that we destroy it but I did not believe until we’d mined nearly a ton of it that it was truly anything but the stuff they play with in the labs. And by then it was too late. So I stole it. Five of us stole it. We seized the ship from them by force. And we dead dropped it here so they couldn’t get it off world, not that easily. You know that transports cannot lock onto anything on world. They couldn’t orbit close enough.”

“I don’t get it, Nog. Are you in trouble? They had to have gotten the ship back, it was all over the news when Watters led the ship back to Starfleet. How did you even manage this far? Leeta said they were trying to kill you!”

“You cannot kill a dead man, Jake. Remember? I’m dead. A hero with honors now and there’s nothing else that you need to know. Collins and I thought it was for the best. We need to trap them and destroy the Kironide. The only ones who know about this are us and a man named Sloan and he dare not leak this to the rest of the main command. Starfleet has no authority, no jurisdiction here. I had to get them to Westworld. They have his authorization. No quarter. The five of us thought we would be safe with the keys scattered. To make sure they could not break the container seal. But it’s down to Dory... that is Collins and me. The others who sided with us are dead. Disappeared. The four that sided with them have been reassigned to a long mission and for the best. It is better for cowards to turn tail and run. I am sorry I had to lie to Moogie but there was no other way to get back here. They’ve been tracking my movements and this is what it has come down to. I need those keys and now that they have them this is the only way.”

“Guess I owe you an apology, Nog. When Leeta told me this was all for the sale of some mineral trade I couldn’t-“

Garak holds up a hand and Julian steps back. He’s heard enough and it’s time to take action. _So this is it, then. This has to be what you were sent here for, Elim. It isn’t the Romulans or the Klingons, but the Federation. This is the grand maneuver they needed you to find. This Kironide. Odo said this isotope has the power to imbue a man with temporary telekinetic abilities and now it makes sense. Of course they want it, the vaunted Federation, the dirty dark secret coven that dogs the shadows that the light casts. The report has to be made, the liaison has to be arranged, but you heard it already, you’ll need the other keys. You now have two, Elim, and you’ll need the others. And those two are the key. Better kill them and be done with it but you can’t afford to stand out. No, better the lot of them lead you to it to see for yourself what uses it has and if it comes down to it..._ Garak blinks his eyes open, adjusting to the light once more, seeing Julian staring at him curiously but more than that seeing a distinct pall to that usually golden hue that’s only accentuated in this light. He also catches the sweat beaded on Julian’s forehead an obvious byproduct of such exertion but possibly something worse. Instinctively, Garak’s eyes track down to Julian’s arm where there’s four long scratches of red like the claws of an angry cat.

There’s an unexpected lurch in the pit of his stomach as he watches fingers taking the pulse on the neck. Julian frowns but holds up a hand and Garak motions that he’s going for the ladder. There’s a raise of an eye ridge, a question. Can Julian climb? Or will they be forced to a reversal of positions? Garak is certain he can shoulder that weight but Julian nods with a shaky breath. It would seem there is no time to waste. The ladder will make noise of course and there is the possibility of the Ferengi employing a shoot first, ask questions later policy, but as Garak mounts the ladder, Julian’s voice echoes behind him.

“Nog! It’s Doctor Bashir from below! I’m with Mr. Garak, the man renting your shop, we’re coming up!”

“Are you alone?!” Garak hears a voice call down as he stars the climb and cannot help but think if they truly were _not_ alone what a fool he would be to admit otherwise. Still, Julian behind him answers in the affirmative and it is then that Garak can see that the circular metal locked into the shaft is meant to only be opened from this side. _Ah, so that is why they had not shot down nor even looked to investigate._

Of course the purpose of such a labyrinthian would be defeated could the room be accessed from above, even if it was from another equally hidden room. Garak worries for just a moment at the ladder holding their combined weight but he doesn’t feel even the slightest bit of bowing. Perhaps the wood used on this world is of a sturdier grade than what is on Cardassia Prime. He lets that thought trail off, for if he does that then it leaves him free to absolutely _not_ consider the narrow tunnel around him until his hands can turn the large wheel counter clockwise presumably to unlatch the lock. Garak resists the undignified urge to throw himself and the door vertical with the promise of freedom. Especially when he considers that they’re likely in yet another miserable dirt crypt. _Ah, but at least it might be a slightly roomier dirty crypt, Elim._

And it is, in fact, though it is still far too cramped for Garak’s comfort. It also has the strange look of some child’s fantasy hideaway complete with a dim lamplight and two wooden crates on either side of a low table, a chess board in the center. He catches sight of a makeshift nest bed in the corner and a few flasks of water and what he assumes is a sack of food. That is coupled with a crude shelf with different knick knacks, books, and what he’s certain is an old tooth sharpener. There is also no ladder but a grubby little vole hole going up diagonal that nearly makes him want to try and come back the way he came. Perhaps if he passes out they can tie a harness around him and pull his limp body through with him being none the wiser. Though a look to the diminutive Ferengi and the lanky Jake Sisko doesn’t leave him much hope of that. Garak sighs as he pulls himself up into the room, thankful that as least he can stand on the makeshift floor of wood boards as he looks to the two young men watching warily from the far end of the room.

He catches a brief flash of metal, pleased that at least Nog had the sense to draw his pistol and not merely take him at face value. Garak wisely takes a step back, hands up as Julian practically flings himself through the opening to roll on the floor in an unceremonious heap.

“It is only the two of us,” Garak says again as Jake moves to close the door. Garak catches sight of a latch, a one way, if he recalls the brief lesson O’Brien had given him on Westworld locks. Garak had wondered the practicality of a lock that one could only use to keep one side of a door, especially when it favored the party on the other side but now the highly specialized mechanism makes sense. That door won’t be able to be accessed back again from this direction. “And you have my assurances, that I did not, do _that_.” He motions to Julian, careful to keep the concern off his face as he does so. Nog nearly drops the pistol before shoving it back into the holster around his hip.

“Doctor Bashir, I-”

“The poison,” Julian gasps, nearly sheet white as he grabs at Nog’s arm, looking up wildly. “What is it?” 

Perhaps that might not have been Garak’s first question, but then again, Garak is not the one that lay dying on the floor. Nog drops to his knees in a rush, feeling Julian’s head with whatever rudimentary Starfleet medical training that he might possess, going a shade more pale himself.

“O, cactus but I don’t have the-” Julian cuts him off with a shake of his head as he rolls to his stomach and forces an arm underneath to give space between his face and the wooden slats. _So that he doesn’t asphyxiate in his own vomit most likely,_ Garak thinks morbidly as a spasm racks Julian’s body. 

“Ah... o cactus... good...” And Garak thinks that the two of them might need to have a nice long chat sometime about their mutually exclusive definitions of good as the violent heaving begins.


	25. Undercover Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak and Julian meet up with our lovable Valiant captain and commander at High Noon and Garak finally phones home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man are we finally coming up to some of the storylines I wanted to adapt from the original series to this crazy world. I do want to let everyone know that while certain events are pretty much in the same order, in instances the times between them from where they occur int he show may be sped up or slowed down since this is an alternate reality/timeline. I still want to keep it consistent but certain parallels just fit better in some areas. That being said, a bit more Julian mystery and some other characters to appear and reappear shortly. Again thank you everyone who's still along for this crazy ride. C&C is always welcome.

“This is the high speed courier you were speaking of?” Garak stares at the small gray and white bird with the green head. It stares back at him seeming to be equally unimpressed. Julian strokes its head gently with his index finger, and it is then that Garak takes proper stock of the very small satchel on its back.

“This is Kukalaka,” Julian informs him looking completely serious as he continues to stroke the feathers tenderly. He still appears a bit pale but all in all, Garak is impressed with his quick recovery. Of course, Garak had speculated once before on Julian’s ability to quickly metabolize certain poisons and it appears that faith was not unfounded. As Julian explained later however, that was not entirely due to his enhancements but rather a lengthy and painful process of forced immunity built up over time. Garak had, of course, inquired as to whether such training was standard for physicians onworld. Julian’s grin was a dead giveaway for the lie as he informed him that it was in fact a practical exam administered for those at the university in Central specializing in frontier medicine. Garak really shouldn’t have found that blatant deception as arousing as he did.

But regardless, it cemented the decision that had started out as nothing but a small seedling in the back of Garak’s brain, growing larger, until it last it had bloomed into a full flower, bright petals bloomed brilliantly. Garak needed him, badly. Not so much in the base, though that would certainly be a benefit, he was certain, but he could make use of that body, of those skills, of those enhancements, for what he had determined at last to be the objective of his mission here. _You need to secure that shipment. You need to see for yourself if that Kironide will have the same effects on Cardassians as it has for the humans and the Ferengi. Perhaps it can be used, perhaps you may be forced to destroy it, but it certainly doesn’t need to belong in the hands of the Federation. You have two keys, according to the Ferengi, Watters and his woman have five, and the woman Collins has four. Nog told you that his other co conspirator did not truly have the keys; that was the ruse. But now it’s all fallen together, thanks to the lovely doctor and all you’ve left to do is cement that trust, that bond, and see where it takes you._

With a smile that he cannot be sure is not entirely patronizing, Garak takes another look at the small bird, who has since decided that he’s far less worth of note than the fawning hand. Garak feels a slight irrational irritation at that as he scribbles the “order” on the small piece of paper on the window sill. _“To the Guildmaster at Southern Mekar, requesting 3 bolts of Indigo weave at your earliest convenience. Payment upon arrival.”_ He folds the missive carefully, Julian politely making a show of averting his eyes leaving no doubt that he read every word. 

“The Indigo sunsearcher is a plant native to Southern Mekar, and highly prized for its color,” Garak explains just as Julian protests that he wasn’t reading a word. _Of course you weren’t, my dear, but you did in fact read every word of it and I counted on that in writing it._ Which is exactly why he left the true message for Pythas as a series of discreet flourishes at the end of certain letters instead. His ancient Hebetian has never been perfect, but he’s found the study useful when the need arises to dance around those he suspects to be fluent in his own written Carassian.

Missive folded, he carefully inserts it into the pouch giving Julian a question look.

“And now all that is left is for this... Kukalaka to sail heavenwards to the LaGrange point and contact the Westworld Communications hub from there? Should he not perhaps be clad in some sort of protective clothing?” It’s a stupid question and Julian appropriately snorts in response. It a question he deserves after his lack of explanation leading up here and Garak doesn’t feel the least bit sorry about it.

“Ha,” Julian answers giving one last pat before untethering a leg, watching as the bird takes off to the sky. “He’s a carrier pigeon who flies the route to Central. These other two,” Julian motions to two birds further down contentedly perched, “fly Chapparal and Rush Valley by way of Largo. They only know one route back and forth, but you won’t find faster flyers. Your message should reach Central by this evening and once they send it up the wire...” he makes a vague gesture as if Garak might question the exact science of the “wire” and Garak merely shakes his head.

“Then it should reach my... seller in the usual transmission time once it’s... wired?”

Julian nods wiping his hands off on his pants. “From here it’s anywhere from a half day to 2 days’ time. They have to run the wire based on the EMP fluctuations. One misstep and they’ve got to rebuild the entire thing. Not an exact science since there’s no predicting the spikes but it’s safest after one hits. They’re fairly regular though. Julian looks at a black chalkboard with a few strange scribbles. “Looks like the last was yesterday morning so you might be in luck.” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “S’pose it couldn’t have hurt to throw in a few gems. Well...” he looks at Garak with a small smile. “It’s only fabric, right, Garak?” He turns back towards the narrow staircase of the post office starting down leaving Garak’s expression tight at his back as he follows.

“Such flippancy towards the ever changing world of fashion, my dear, is the reason you’d never make it in such a cutthroat business that is the tailor. Why, it was only this morning I received the latest magazine from Central showing the trend in late autumn blues exploding all around.”

“And that’s why you’re so eager to get to this next... business meeting?” Julian asks as they walk out into the high sun. Garak absently adjusts the suspenders over his shoulders deciding that he might need to make a few modifications for those with more prominent trapezius.

“One cannot sleep on gaining any possible edge over the competition,” Garak answers breezily as the two of them walk down the street headed north. “I’m only thankful that none of our... explorations the other night necessitated the need for repairs to the shop. I’m afraid I haven’t turned enough of a profit yet to allow for any structural repairs.”

“Excepting for Odo’s demand that you cover that “glowing monstrosity” before it causes any more trouble.” Garak shrugs, keeping discreet watch to the windows. 

“One horse through one set of replaceable doors hardly warranted such a stern reaction, but Mr. Nog assured me that the mechanism to raise that blade back should be completed by tomorrow morning.”

_And by tomorrow morning it won’t be necessary for my plans to have that glare when the sun moves into the proper position. Just a few more minutes but that should be enough to deter the sniper I’m sure that will be waiting._ Watters and Farris had agreed to this meeting far too readily for his comfort, after all, and despite Nog’s belief that there were only the two of them, Garak didn’t think for a second they wouldn’t have contracted someone on world to assist in their acquisition. He’d always respected that about Section 31. They were refreshingly pragmatic about the necessities of the end game and _that_ made them far easier to deal with.

“But now this, my dear, is a business venture I cannot possibly pass up, for who knows what possible garments one might fashion out of this... Kironide.” He dares a discreet glance to Julian, seeing that expression slip far more serious.

“But of course, if it’s not something you had a... professional use for...”

Yes, there was that agreement with Nog, the only reason that this was going as planned, was his word that his sole intent was to destroy the stuff on behalf of the Cardassian Union, lest the Federation get their hands on it. Now as for getting those two to give up their keys or come with him to open the box... _Well now, that might require a bit more finesse but you have that hunch, Elim, don’t you? You know you’re going to this meeting with little chance of an accord but there is that instinct that tells you that Julian is the key. That Julian will pull this together if only you let him. If you test him and see just what he can bring to the table. This may very well be the best tool you’ve acquired. You can tell he’s dropped suspicion of your intent to kill him. He’s saved your life at some risk to his own, now if you can turn that even further to your advantage, if you can play him, secure his loyalty..._

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Julian? To keep me honest?” Julian had, in fact, offered no reason for accompanying him which was curious in and of itself. 

“I don’t think there’s a force that exists in the universe that could keep you honest,” Julian teases as he walks along side him. “Perhaps I just enjoy watching you work.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be terribly bored, my dear. Haggling over prices can be trying for those without a Ferengi’s business acumen. You might be better served waiting out of this heat with an iced tea at Rom’s.” He mentally smirks at Julian’s visible shudder.

“No self respecting Englishman would ever drink such an abomination.”

“My apologies. A lemonade perhaps?”

“Not on your life, Garak.” Garak watches as he slips on a pair of dark sunglasses one handed with a rather dramatic flair. Julian’s eyes are now carefully hidden behind those dark lenses, a pity, Garak thinks.

Garak wears a smile, shoulders back as he sees the young officers standing there looking far too relaxed for what he’s seen of them already. Yes, definitely a sniper then. He’s thankful that he got Nog to agree to remain dead for the time being lest he become caught in the possible crossfire. Nog could rise from the dead upon the beginning of their trip when he’ll need allies to keep from being murdered in his sleep from the pretty pair standing in front of him.

“Mister Garak.” Karin Farris steps forward cooly. He’s thankful that she’s abandoned the uncomfortable clothes. She wears the blouse tucked into the tan khakis far more naturally. “It is only because the Federation does not believe in unnecessary force and barbarism that we’re even agreeing to this ridiculous farce.” She barely spares a glance for Julian at his left. 

“And I assure you... Commander, that we mere Cardassians are thankful that the Federation has a history of exercising such commendable restraint.” Watters, Garak notes seems content to stay back and let Farris speak for him. Farris directs a sneer towards Julian.

“Surely you don’t expect me to believe _he_ is a Cardassian.”

“Cardassian in training,” Garak answers imagining a roll of Julian’s eyes as he does so. “It’s an extensive education program but you have my word that his marks are quite impressive.” She looks about to spout off another snappy answer when Watters deigns to take the lead, his height drawn up to be imposing. Garak doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the cut of his shirt is traditionally a female one. He wonders if the merchant who sold it might not have wanted a laugh at the man’s expense.

“Commander,” Watters says, a charming smirk in his face as he looks down his nose. “You know a Cardassian will stand here and talk about absolute nothing until the sun sets.”

“Nothing?” Garak says aghast. “Why, we’re talking about the continuing education of an impressionable young man-”

“Oh please,” Julian murmurs, another imagined eye roll.

“We want the keys, Cardassian,” Watters declares wasting no words. “Whatever games you’re playing they end here. I won’t appeal to your greater conscience. I know you don’t have one. We’re on this mission to end a war before it even begins. An enemy that threatens your Cardassia as well. Trust me, that history will judge one dead lizard a small price to pay for the safety of the entire universe.” Garak listens patiently, more distracted by the buttons being on the opposite side of the shirt, letting Watters’ grandstanding pass over him. He only need delay a few more moments before the sun will be in place and already he can tell there is something about Julian’s demeanor beside him that’s not as one would expect. 

_No, there should be that heated interruption, that “You cannot take a man’s life!” and whatever other moralizing that ought to be passionately thrown out. But there is a tension that you can feel. There’s an anger there which belies any complicit intent on his part. He’s on your side in which case he’s thinking, he’s planning, just as you are and surely he does not know that your plan hinges entirely on a suspicion that may be nothing more than the mid life delusions of grandeur of a... Yes Elim, of a clearly genetically enhanced nobody. There’s no such thing and you know it. Augment hunters don’t spend half a lifetime targeting the failures. No, there is far more to him than that and you just need to let it come to the forefront._

Garak smiles, letting Watters finish, half expecting him to hold out his hand like a petulant child.

“Ah, of course, this is where I surrender the keys to the noble Federation and repent for my evil and selfish ways. But of course, who’s to say that only the Federation should be left as the keeper of the Alpha Quadrant. Who’s to say that we Cardassians might not be an equally effective caretaker for such a monumental task as the security of the universe. The Federation values cooperation, does it not?”

“This is _not_ a negotiation, Cardassian!” Farris interjects hotly, “and even if it _were_ you aren’t in any position to make demands of us!”

“Naturally I cannot profess to speak for those in authority, being but a humble tailor, however I did have chance to mend the trousers of a rather prominent government figure on occasion, and I can assure you that those in power are _always_ amenable to diplomatic discussions.”

Garak almost expects a weapon to be drawn, but he sees none and knows now that it’s down to the wire. They don’t know that this spot is about to go blind and he’s not going to have much time to react.

“Enough games,” Watters says as Garak ticks down the time in his head. “Did you bring the keys or not?” Garak sees the sliver of rainbowed light appear, moving slowly across the ground just as he reaches into his pocket to show the keys. 

“And now that I’ve shown you mine,” he offers, waiting to see who, if not both is in possession of the remaining five. Watters smirks, cocky, confident as he too holds up keys; three of them. Farris follows suit, and Garak wonders if the light will be blinding enough to grab them all in the confusion. It won’t blind him, however. He can sense the separate heat signatures outside of his vision and he lets that be his focus as Watters speaks, making a quick gesture with the raise of his hand. 

“Get a good look at them, Cardassian. And then you can-”

That sentence is cut off as the light hits them, bright, blinding, more at Garak’s back but still enough for the time that it lasts to be a public nuisance as Odo declared and to light and reflect off of the metal accents of the buildings around them in a blinding web of refraction. Garak supposes that phenomenon spared him whatever cliche that was to follow as he quickly moves from his previous spot, hearing a shot but not seeing where it lands. What matters is that it didn’t hit _him_. He intends of course in that instant to follow through with that learned sleight of hand. Poor though it may be in comparison to Jadzia and Julian, he would label it sufficient for his purpose. But what he sees in that moment when he gives into that impulse to let his eyes separate, watching the two and the rest of the town both, is a reward that will be well worth the duration of his incapacitation.

Julian has removed the sunglasses as the residents of Indigo have all likely taken ocular cover for the next few moments and he’s walked over to Watters with a steely determination that’s far removed from the stammering doctor that he met the first day. Garak sees him lean, sees him whisper soft- too Gul’s damned soft to hear- briefly, or perhaps just that quickly Garak cannot be sure. But whatever it is that he says in those moments, Garak watches as Watters shoves the keys back, making another motion in a much more obvious direction. And at that moment he isn’t sure whether he ought to be more surprised by the words that Julian whispered, or the fact that his left eye catches sight of the Bajoran Kira Nerys standing on the roof of Quark’s Necessities angrily shouldering a large rifle. No, as the light passes, Julian once more throwing those sunglasses back on with an almost nervous look straight at him, Garak decides that Julian is most definitely the mystery that warrants his immediate attention.

“We will accompany you to the cargo, Cardassian,” Watters informs him stiffly as Julian hurries past him with a brushing of their shoulders. “But once we’re there, don’t count on _him_ to save you.” Garak lets that eye trail Julian’s retreating form appreciatively, letting the two officers stare uncomfortably at the right still fixed in them. The smile hasn’t left his face the entire time.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”


	26. Cyclone on Horseback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day has come to set off for the West Continent, but will things really go so smoothly? If experience holds true, Garak is sure that at least it won't be boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this week there be a double update. I figured it best since one of the chapters has no Garak. Super excited to start this arc since there's way more action and insanity to come. I did pull a bit of inspiration from FFVI's Blackjack as well. Also, Molly appears and I look forward to playing with some other lesser used characters too. Thank you all for reading and supporting this! C&C always welcome.

“Julian...” Garak blinks as he looks out towards the vast expanse of desert, right hand stealing up towards the black unflattering patch covering his right eye. “Tell me I’m imagining that.” That, referring the the massive... well really, Garak has no idea what it actually is. It appears to be some oblong object the size of the entire town by his estimation. It is neutrally colored, almost like the dessert backdrop, a hue of faint lavender braced around with what appears to be some slim metal around but he cannot be sure. It looks like some enormous Earth marine animal that he’s seen in Jadzia’s picture books, the thing seeming large enough to block out the sun itself. His vision is still faintly blurry, but not half as impaired as it had been the first time he unwisely let his eye track independently. Garak blinks again, the rising sun glinting off the metal framing, and he thinks he can make out a small shape beneath it, some combination of wood and metal but he can’t be certain. What is certain, however, is the shadow cast over half the desert from its mass.

Next to him, Julian sets down two large duffel bags just in time to swat Garak’s hand away. The trunks were already taken ahead; it was the two of them that had to wait until the right time.

“What did I tell you about playing with that?” He sounds exasperated already with the day only just beginning. “The muscles need to relax, and the injection I gave you should help with some of the worse symptoms but if you’re not careful then...” Julian scowls at him. “You really don’t care, do you?” He shakes his head with a sigh. “Of course not. You’re from off world. Bollocks up your eyes, just get new ones, get cybernetics, grow them from your tissues, right, why worry.” He picks up the bags again as Garak lowers his hand not quite sheepishly.

“My apologies for my thoughtlessness, Julian, I assure you I hold your expertise in the highest regard. Perhaps it is a failing of those of us from off world as you say to take such things for granted.”

The two of them start walking towards the mass Julian appearing slightly mollified.

“That’ll be Molly then. When I sent out the message I was lucky to catch her before she left Adrosta. She’s our best bet for reaching the West Continent with any speed. At least with seven of us including her piloting.”

“Eight,” Garak interjects the correction not entirely looking at Julian as he does so.

“What do you mean, eight? There’s you, me, Nog, the three Starfleet officers, and Molly herself.”

“Ah, you’re forgetting Mrs. O’Brien,” Garak supplies helpfully, noting that Julian has stopped rather abruptly with that announcement, looking decidedly pale.

“You... you cannot possibly be serious.” Of course Garak had not expected the most favorable reception given the nature of their mission, but he could hardly be expected to compromise their cover now, could he? “She is _not_ coming with us, Garak, have you lost your mind?” Julian has dropped his voice although Garak expects with much of Indigo attending the massive monthly spiritual service- some impractical mashup of by his count at least half a dozen different religions offering the draw of a free gluttonous brunch parade- it hardly seems likely that they’ll be overheard.

“I could hardly refuse,” Garak answers somewhat evasively. He wonders as he looks at the two bags if he might not fill another trunk with a few more necessities for work. Julian still isn’t moving with that answer and Garak sighs knowing they won’t make much progress unless he offers a better response. “Now I cannot imagine what could _possibly_ have made her so suspicious of the trip,” Garak begins picturing the wry expression beneath those dark glasses, “but somehow she has it in her head that our trip isn’t exactly on the... what you humans would call the up and up.” Garak takes a few steps, hoping that Julian will take the hint and at least continue what looks to be a rather long trek out into the dessert towards that massive flying monstrosity. He is pleased that Julian starts walking again, though he, and his hearing could certainly do without the unnecessary whispering.

“Of course it’s a dangerous trip,” Julian practically growls at him with an intensity that Garak finds far too exciting for the current scenario. “Which is exactly why she should _not_ be going.” Impeccable logic, sound, reasonable, there isn’t any arguing with it really. That was the thought in Garak’s mind some two days prior as he spoke with Keiko- she insisted on that first name address given their newfound status as traveling companions- and attempted to unsuccessfully convince her that her going along would be terribly boring and possibly as long as a month before returning. It was at that point she informed him cheerfully that her profession as a botanist was being completely wasted in Indigo; O’Brien argument #12, Garak recalled the moment the words left her mouth. And it was in that same breath she sweetly reasoned that a mere exhibition to some caves in order for him and his “buyers” to hash out the negotiations over some raw material for dye couldn’t possibly be so inconvenienced by one woman taking a few samples back for study. Especially an exhibition trip which her daughter would be leading, and it was then he realized that nothing short of tying her to the nearest hitching post- and likely not even that- would keep her from coming along.

_Yes, because you need yet another civilian in what could more than likely be a violent confrontation once your contacts arrive from Cardassia to inspect the shipment. Of course the intent isn’t to kill, but then again death doesn’t reserve itself exclusively for those actively courting it. The nature of the exchange will depend entirely on orders from Tain and the usefulness of the Kironide. What is the exact nature of the telekinetic enhancements, the duration, any other side effects. The Ferengi reported nothing more than head pressure, strain, some pain afterwards but was oddly elusive on the nature of the works. It may very well prove toxic in some manner. Whatever Julian said, those two are a willing party for this excursion but then what? He’s refused to disclose any information on what he said, choosing to play ignorant. There’s no guarantee that he’s on your side in this. For all you know you’ll be fighting every last one of them to the death while O’Brien’s wife picks flowers and stuffs them in a sack none the wiser._

What he hasn’t told Julian, of course is the very clear threat of alerting the Gul’s damn bounty hunter to his leaving; the reason they had to wait until later int he morning to leave int he first place. They’ve yet to sort out the legalities with Odo who refuses to either give her carte blanche to exorcise the “dirty spoonhead” who may or may not be Aamin Marritza or definitely confirm that he is an innocent man under the protection of the law. The impasse is galling, to say the least and the affront to his dignity, sneaking out of town like some common criminal is irritating. But Garak is nothing if not adaptable and Kira has been given no hint of their plans, Julian and Leeta both swearing that she’s a devout where that monthly sideshow is concerned. Leeta assured him in fact that she spends the better part of these services arguing with Quark over the extraneous charges for water and fees during Ferengi sermons. _Yes, she’ll be out of the way, and you can deal with one overly suspicious mother of a scientist for a few weeks to avoid another shoot out._

It occurs to Garak during these musings, that as the town begins to shrink and the ship begins to loom large in his view that Julian has been carrying on this entire time about the matter. Garak maintains his expression, finding his depth perception pitifully lacking with one eye covered as he assures Julian that it was unavoidable and perhaps if he is so concerned with Keiko’s well being he can appoint himself her knightly benefactor for the duration of the trip.

“No,” Julian replies oddly distant. “That won’t be necessary. Molly will watch out for her after all, and in spite of my reservations, Keiko is neither a foolish nor cowardly woman.” Garak sees a brief tightness of Julian’s face, an off turn of his head, imagining that thoughtful blink, seeing him lick his lips. “She’ll be fine,” he says aloud, and though to most it would seem nothing but an empty reassurance to ones self, it is in fact a very clear and definitive shift in thinking and perception. _Ah, a fine, fine, liar you are, my dear._

Garak admires that easy change in truth, letting Julian explain the closer they get down the well worn dirt path, the workings of the ship. Garak is no engineer, and Julian certainly not, but the explanation nonetheless is a fascinating one that makes him wonder how Cardassian flight might have taken root bound by the quirks and challenges of a planet such as Westworld. _Of course, our ancestors didn’t have a wealth of modern technology and scientific principles and experiments spanning multiple cultures and worlds either to fall back on. No, all these settlers had to do was coordinate the manufacture of certain building blocks to start and experiment with the rest, letting transports dead drop whatever supplies they might need in the interim._ Dead dropping being as the name implied, the reckless cargo dumps from shielded containers off planets in orbit; the innumerable ship wreckages dotting the planet’s surface a true testament to the madness of early Westworld settlers. _Ah, but it’s not merely Westworld, Elim. The Maquis are equally thick headed, equally pointlessly, stubbornly clinging to some patch of land they’ve decided is their home._

But folly or no, there is a certain majesty as the airship Julian said was named “Godokoro” comes into full view. The cabin, dwarfed immensely by the size of the semi rigid balloon, is far larger than he ever would have imagined from Julian’s description. Of course to off worlders used to starships built to be cities unto themselves, such a vessel would hardly seem impressive. Garak however, finds an incomparable aesthetic in the ornate, elegant wood, in the brass trim, in the long impractical staircase unfolded like the foyer in some grand parochial manor from whence the lady of the house would descend for a grand gala. _Or perhaps again you’ve been immersing yourself far too heavily in this overdecorated and sentimental Westworld culture._ Cloying or not, Garak cannot help but allow his eyes to linger at the scripted brush strokes spelling the word in what he assumes to be some eastern Earth script, the letters black against the polished wood of the hull, glinting with shine as the sun hits just so

There are numerous windows at least some several meters up from the open door and he sees a few anchors thrown into the dirt over the sides. The cabin opens up top, a railing lining a balcony that seems to spring up at the far end where one might stand and observe. He can see the two Starfleet Officers glancing into the distance looking far less harmless as they both peer out from spyglasses. He also notes a few shuttered doors and wonders what purpose they might serve the closer they come. The quiet, Garak thinks, is what is the most impressive of all though. It is unusual to be so close to a vessel without so much as the hum, the sounds of hydraulics, drives, anything that would indicate the life of a ship. He watches the faint bob of the balloon faintly with the wind, the anchors keeping the ship perfectly still on the ground, and he marvels once more at the artistry. He finally has to crane his head to see the top of the ship, the long shadow casting mostly to the side, but still covering him and Julian as they approach. The staircase seems even more massive when Garak sees it up close and he notes the bends, the hinges, imagining the feat it must take to retract it.

Curiously, Julian sets the bags down before they reach the stairs, a wide smile on his face as he does.

“You might want to move aside,” he advises as he watches the open door, that grin only getting bigger and Garak obeys wordlessly wondering what on Earth it is that Julian is expecting. His attention vacillates between the door and Julian when he closes his eyes, vision starting to swim from the exertion. It isn’t until he hears a loud shriek of “Julian!” that he looks up and catches sight- at least for the brief moment she’s there- of a short haired young woman, bright red scarf around her neck in a tan button down blouse and khakis tucked into boots. He only catches that in a blink as she runs wildly, launching herself in the air to Garak’s complete surprise. He nearly shouts a warning only it seems Julian is well aware given his preparation but surely even an augment would break something if-

The two of them crash, though Garak is certainly impressed with how Julian absorbs what must be at least 55 kilograms falling back into the dirt hard on top of him. He laughs, Garak watching a grand hug, the young woman pressing a kiss to his cheek before sitting back immediately starting to rummage through his pockets. Julian laughs harder and Garak notes that his sides are especially ticklish.

“M-Molly... p-pants... p-ants...” Her hands are small but are slightly dirty and appear rough, disappearing into both pants pockets before pulling out a wrapped cloth from the left. She sits on his legs, and Garak sees the small bundle unwrapped to reveal several brightly colored sticks that Garak has seen at Quark’s in the jars behind the counter. Candy sticks, the red with orange stripes a cinnamon one that he recalls, rather unpleasant, but she jams it in Julian’s mouth with a wide smile. _Molly, the O’Brien’s daughter. the pilot then._ And while her demeanor as she takes a bright yellow lemon stick, is one that might not inspire confidence, her hands, and the faint movements of tight, lean muscle are testament enough for him.

Molly stands up, and throws the remaining bundle into a pocket sewn onto the right thigh of the pants as she looks at him curiously.

“You’re the Cardassian,” she states around the stick, looking him up and down with an assessing look that makes him look to Julian with a faint question as he wonders what Julian might have conveyed in his correspondence. Molly nods, taking the candy stick from her mouth, hands on hips as she smiles at him, big wide, showing a neat row of white teeth. “Good.” He can feel a brow ridge wanting to quirk hard as she grabs the bags and whirls quickly, practically skipping up the stairs. “C’mon then!” she calls to them both, Julian just starting to pick himself up off the ground as she does. He bites off a piece of the stick, and opens his mouth just as she follows up with “Everyone else has already unpacked, slow pokes! You’re gonna have to stow it til we’re airborne!”

She disappears just as quickly, Julian brushing himself off with a shake of his head, stuffing the broken piece in his pocket. 

“Well then, not much of an introduction, I suppose, but the trip will be long enough for that.” He checks his watch with a click of his tongue that sends a faint shiver up Garak’s spine. Julian really has no idea how delightful a sound that is.

“She seems quite fond of you,” Garak observes, the line nothing but small talk, his attention already elsewhere. It makes sense, after all, given the small community and Julian’s likely friendship with Miles O’Brien. What he doesn’t expect though is the faint widening of Julian’s eyes, the tightness of his mouth, the quick jerk of his head towards the door before he brushes past, quickly.

“She’s like a daughter to me. There’s no relation, of course.” _Of course. Why one would even say such a thing though..._ Garak files that too away as he follows Julian up the stairs, hand running along the rail, unsure of the exact nature of the material as he finally begins to see inside.

“We’ll have to pull the stairs,” Julian informs him as he watches Julian turn a corner, his own attention focused on the large room that comes into view. It certainly isn’t what he expected for a passenger craft. He’d imagined, of course some seats, some storage, spaces upon entering but what he sees instead is a grand parlor with tables, chairs, furniture resembling a garish manor home rather than a passenger craft. There are sconces lining the walls, the high windows letting light stream in to elegant curtained window boxes and beautifully carved settees with cushions. He sees a few rope rails along the papered walls, a hallway off to the side, paintings, maps, hanging carefully. And then shelves too, massive wooden beasts to the far left full of texts, books, behind netting to hold them in place. It is then he notices that each piece is carefully bolted to the floor, through the rugs that lay over the polished hard wood. He steps inside almost hesitantly as Julian calls to him from the side.

“I got the stairs if you get the rails.” Garak turns, seeing a twinkle in Julian’s eyes, likely his open mouth gaping amusing as he brings his expression back to something far more neutral. as he sees the large wheel on the wall. Julian is turning it hard, and Garak cannot help but look down and out as the steps begin to flatten and slowly retract into the ship like a ramp, steadily drawing chains sounding beneath the floor. Garak then looks to the opposite side of the door to a smaller crank and he finds the turning clockwise to be surprisingly easy, imagining the segmented rail performing a similar action. 

“This is all quite impressive,” Garak remarks, continuing to turn until it comes to a stop. Julian nods, that boyish grin quite infectious.

“Oh you haven’t even begun to see it, Garak. I’ll have to give you the tour after launch. We ought to join everyone out on deck for the launch.” He presses in, a small brass panel and the door slides out the side just enough to be slid the rest of the way closed. Garak sees the dark seal around and cannot imagine it is solely for pressurization and decides he might ask for the specifics later.

“You don’t get motion sick do you?” Julian asks, that rakish grin just daring him to answer in the affirmative. There’s a slight bounce to his expectant step, and Garak shakes his head.

“There is not the motion invented, that I do not relish,” Garak answers with a look perhaps far to innocent for the innuendo but Julian catches the intent just the same. His eyes sweep Garak’s frame from top to bottom as Molly earlier but this time there is a definitive invitation to that look.

“That look suits you, you know. It makes you look downright devilish,” He inclines his head towards the eye patch. “You look a right swashbuckler,” he says and Garak is not quite sure what that alludes to but makes a note to ask later. 

“Well, I certainly hope that’s a good thing.” Julian laughs at his obvious polite confusion.

“Oh I assure you it’s a marvelous thing to be right now. But come, the anchors will be raised any moment and you get the best view from the front.”

Garak follow him down a long hallway, counting three closed doors on the right and left as they approach a wooden door without a window. Outside, the deck is vast, with a few more tables and chairs far more practical, bolted to the floor. He sees the rails are in fact far higher than he’d realized, only coming to waist height when one reaches the top of two twin staircases going to a higher deck.

“The best few is up there, of course,” Julian declares, already running ahead leaving Garak to look to the rails along the sides, presumably for holding on, admiring a bench, and ivy twining around the decorative trellises between the two sets of stairs. He doesn’t tarry long; he is quite excited himself to see the view, still not quite sure that he shares Julian’s enthusiasm for a ride in a beast that looks eminently impractical. He doesn’t get the chance however as Julian comes running down the stairs suddenly, nearly knocking him over.

“By the State, Julian, what is-”

“Jadzia!” Julian exclaims, hovering in the doorway impatiently. “Brace yourself, we need to launch now.”

“What?” Garak is positive that somewhere he’s missed something major as Julian shakes his head almost violently.

“No time. He’s coming. She’ll make it. But now.” Julian is already gone, and in spite of his slight mobility handicap, Garak dashes up the stairs as quickly as possible, ignoring everyone else as he takes hold of the railing and looks towards the direction of town. And as he does, he absolutely catches sight of Jadzia on horseback, approaching from the end of town a coil of rope on the side of the saddle, driving the poor beast furiously. But that isn’t what makes his eyes open wide, the figures still pinprick tiny to most, he’s sure, but not to his keen vision. No, it isn’t Jadzia, he sees, that caused Julian to run, at least he’s fairly certain of that. Because behind her, Garak catches the most incredible sight. 

Behind her runs a Klingon in a gold Starfleet uniform, getting further and further away from the galloping horse; and he looks anything but happy.


	27. The Hateful Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Double, Toil and Trouble. A meeting of those behind the attempt on Garak's life and much more of the plot is revealed when these eight congregate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kid you not, THIS is the chapter I have had in planning since the very beginning and at last the time has come. Having said that I hope it doesn't disappoint because man did I ever have such a vision for this. I do want everyone to know I have taken some liberties with ages and filled in a LOT of blanks since as far as I know we know from canon that Dukat has a wife Athra, 8 kids (including Ziyal) and one is named Mekor. As you can imagine that gave me a lot of room here. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this because crap's about to hit the fan big :)
> 
> Double update this week so check out chapter 26 if you haven't already!

“You’re late, Tekenny.” The rebuke comes from a young Cardassian woman seated on a large sofa, drumming her fingers on an end table. Her leg bounces impatiently as she glares up at the young Cardassian man entering the room. She is clad in the uniform of the second order, black from head to toe, her face severe as she tracks his lazy movements to sit on the large arm of that same sofa. He pays her little attention as he turns to the sofa’s other occupant. Another woman sits, Cardassian but only half so, the ridges on her nose revealing her clear Bajoran half as well. She greets him instead with a smile as she moves forward, keeping the two from glaring at each other.

“Nelissa was worried you wouldn’t make it, brother. We know your work keeps you busy-”

“I can speak for myself, Ziyal,” Nelissa snaps as she attempts to look around and fix Tekenny with a heated glare. “This lazy first son can afford to waste his days chasing women and writing bad poetry. The only time that he has is free time. The rest of us have _work_ for our station.”

Tekenny laughs softly, crossing a leg underneath a large colorful patchwork of a shirt. His long hair is pulled back, slick though hardly careful. A few errant strands whip about defiantly. He looks across to another young man studiously looking at a datapad, seated on the floor in front of a low table.

“Is that what you call it when father secures you a spot in the second order? Now Mekor here knows a little something about work. It is not easy being father’s shadow. The figure he casts if far greater than Mekor’s stature.” Mekor, still looking hard at the PADD in front of him barely spares a glance for his brother. He scrolls down further, one leg crossed, the other a knee raised almost childishly as he snorts in answer with a shake of his head. He’s short, face seemingly screwed into a perpetually worried expression as his finger picks absently at the high collar of the brown tunic.

“You would not scoff if you really understood the burden on my shoulders, brother. With the Detapa Council having seized control of the government, Father has had to rely on me a considerable amount more.” Mekor turns to his left, to an exceptionally slim young woman in a modest plum dress, kneeling beside him, sipping daintily from a tall glass of rokassa juice. “Father will not be back until dark but you know that there is much that I must do in his stead. I would prefer if we do not tarry, Zorana.”

“Yes,” Nelissa chimes in with an enthusiastic move forward. “You called us here, Zorana, what’s going on with the snake?”

“Yes, the snake!” Two twin voices hovering between child and woman chime in enthusiastically at the same time. On a large settee, one bounces and then another in tandem before looking at each other quickly, sheepishly.

“Is he dead?” From the girl on the right, dressed in a silver school uniform, a small emblem of the Cardassian Union sewn into the corner along with the family crest, trimmed in green around the collar and sleeves. The garment is fitted, a belt holding with several small loops for other devices woven in, another insignia, for the science ministry on the buckle, pants tucked neatly into black boots. 

“I told you it would definitely kill him,” her twin, identically dressed, separated by only a red band in her hair, agrees. 

“Of course, _children_ would think so,” the last in the room, a young woman with impossibly long hair stands by the window, carefully refreshing the pale blue to her forehead in a small mirrored compact. “But Zorana always has always liked these ridiculous, pointless plots. Just another chance to show everyone how _clever_ she is.” There’s a disdainful sniff that follows the statement. The kneeling woman, Zorana, tenses just a bit at the criticism but doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I knew exactly what I was doing when I volunteered to be first, Oranda,” she answers cooly. “My plan is for the end game and I needed to set it into motion.”

“It _was_ unnecessarily complicated,” Mekor agrees as he continues his reading.

“So the bastard snake’s still alive,” Nelissa practically hisses excited.

“You say that as if it’s your turn next. Doesn’t our darling baby brother hold that honor?” Tekenny laughs again. “Here’s your chance, Mekor. Cut off the head of the snake and the prize is yours.”

“Father already favors me,” Mekor replies loftily. “I do not need to kill Elim Garak like the rest of you for a few extra crumbs from the table.”

“And yet here you sit, with the rest of us like starving regnars.” Oranda looks over the mirror briefly to Nelissa. “That’s what he called us, isn’t it sister?” 

“Scavengers,” Nelissa agrees, “fighting over bones.” She shakes a finger at him. “Better to fight over bones and die with dignity than to feast off the scraps of carrion that fall from the hound’s jaws.”

“Says the barren _bramini_ ,” the girl with the headband chimes in sweetly. The moment the words leave her mouth Ziyal stands hotly.

“Kasella!” the girl, Kasella shrinks back in response with a duck of her head. Her twins opens her mouth but shuts it again when Ziyal turns that same motherly glare on her. “Illiana. Don’t.” A petulant bob of her head and Illiana too remains silent. Ziyal smooths the skirts of the long aqua dress as she sits back down. “Really, I don’t know where you learned those words,” she mumbles fixing Nelissa with a small frown, already knowing the answer. 

“Of course it’s not about father,” Tekenny agrees putting an arm around her. “It’s about what the snake has done to our beloved sister.” His face remains relaxed, easy, but there’s a steel in his voice as his eyes sweep the room that dares any of them to contradict him. 

“I’m certain Mekor would say it’s to avenge the family honor,” Oranda interjects with a toss of her head. “Fancy that, _Mekor_ talking about honor.”

“Does the motive matter so long as the end result remains the same?” Mekor sounds almost bored.

“We’ll see what you have to say when I kill him and father names me head of the family assets. We’ll see the lot of you naysayers begging me for a monthly stipend then,” Oranda boasts.

“Spell stipend,” Mekor challenges while Zorana snickers softly into the mouth of the glass.

“The lot of you think I’m stupid. You’ll be sorry soon enough.” Oranda snaps the compact closed with a huff, drawing her shoulders back imperiously, the low cut bodice of the fitted dress hugged snugly to her bosom.

“We don’t think, we _know_ you’re stupid,” Kasella chimes in. Illiana gives a mocking shake of her chest, both girls giggling behind their hands at the glare. Ziyal sighs.

“I do wish you all wouldn’t fight,” she says with a shake of her head.

“You sound like mother,” Nelissa teases with a light poke to Ziyal’s side.

“You take that back!” Ziyal swats at her childishly.

“She _does_ sound like mother,” Illiana agrees.

“You wouldn’t even know she’s not really-” Kasella shuts her mouth immediately as the room turns pin drop quiet. She retreats back into the seat, eyes wide. 

“Who told you that?!” Nelissa is on her feet quickly practically stalking over to the two of them. Both twins point furiously to Oranda who steps back quickly. Nelissa fixes her with a furious glare. “Why don’t we settle this then, _sister_?” Oranda draws a short dagger as Nelissa advances.

“Don’t underestimate me, _sister_ ,” Oranda bites back at her.

“We agreed not to speak of this,” Zorana snaps looking up at the both of them. “We are _all_ family and we need to remember that or we’re playing right into the snake’s hands.”

The two of them look at her, both poised to strike. Ziyal claps her hands loudly.

“Stop, both of you!” The oldest of the eight, Ziyal, even the half breed commands that respect. The two sisters standing down reluctantly.

“You shouldn’t have told them, Oranda,” Zorana offers that rebuke. “We all agreed that the fewer who know the truth, the safer it is.”

“You say the truth as if the snake has never lied a day in his life,” Mekor mutters half to himself. 

“ _You_ believed him.”

“I believed father’s face when Ziyal confronted him about it.” There is silence again to that admission, the seven looking at Ziyal almost uneasily. The snake, Elim Garak revealed that Ziyal was not the daughter of Athra Dukat and some nameless Bajoran houseboy as they’d all been raised to believe, but in fact the daughter of Skrain Dukat and his Bajoran mistress, Tora Naprem who died during her birth. Dukat’s face upon that question from Ziyal left no doubt as to the truth; Athra had taken that public shame to save her husband’s career. 

“And mother called it a vicious lie, now let that be the end of it.” Ziyal frowns hard at them all. “Half is half,” she says with a small forced laugh. “It doesn’t really matter which half now, does it?” 

“Mother is mother. Father is father. Family is Cardassian,” Tekenny recites the line from one of his newer works, that overdone prose breaking the tension as the twin burst into giggles and Mekor shakes his head in disgust.

“Perhaps it is the eldest simpleton who is half Bajoran,” he quips, the serious expression never leaving his face.”

“Say that when the snake is dead,” Tekenny fires back. “It’s your turn next, brother. Ah, but if our cunning Zorana couldn’t do it, my hopes for you are pitifully low.”

“As are father’s for you.” The two men glare at each other, Zorana coughing to interrupt them. 

“Oranda says the word clever like it’s one of her beloved poisons, but none of you realize just how important cunning, how critical the end game is.”

“Spoken like a true member of the Order,” Tekenny declares with a flourish. Zorana smiles back at him prettily. 

“Brother, you know that the Order no longer exists,” she chides academically.

“Then where do you still keep disappearing to, sister?” Oranda accuses.

“Father knows, and that’s what matters, _sister_. And like father, I know the value of strategy. You all wanted to know why the games, why set up the snake to appear as someone else, why the trouble? It’s simple. With the Order disbanded, with no one remaining to come to his aid, I erased him. Elim Garak, the snake, is dead. But I alone, obtained the intelligence on that world. I learned what I needed to know. And that is the flow of information is very particular. And once I established that the snake is this Marritza, it was all too easy to set the bounty. There is a woman on that world, a bounty hunter, Kira Nerys who takes all Cardassian bounties. And she doesn’t rest once she does.”

“There’s a rumor she’s after father next,” Nelissa interjects. 

“That is because her mother Kira Meru was one of Father’s Bajoran whores,” Mejor says blandly. “With as many woman as Father was known to have during the occupation...” He looks up for the first time at Ziyal’s face as soon as the words are spoken. His mouth closes tightly and he inclines his head. “I did not mean-”

“It’s...” Ziyal swallows before leaning forward to the pitcher of water on the table. It’s the closest that Mekor will ever come to an apology. She manages a small smile as she pours the glass. “It’s nothing, brother,” she says barely above a whisper. Mekor ignores a glare from Zorana as she continues.

“As I was saying, the point was to set the stage for the snake’s death. And it’s done. if the lot of you weren’t so impatient, we could sit back and wait. Every bounty hunter on Westworld, and every desperate man and woman there will want him dead. The snake cannot escape the entire planet. It’s only a matter of time. In a few months the bounty will raise; I’ll put up the money and we’ll see.”

“He’ll be dead before then,” Mekor declares switching screens on the PADD. “I took what you gave me. He’s contacted Lok; I have the communication that you intercepted. The trap can be set now.”

“He asked _you_ for help?!” Oranda practically screeches, and the rest look at Zorana with unfriendly eyes.

“I settle my debts,” Zorana says indifferently. “That’s all you need to know.” She takes another slow drink speaking to Mekor. “And that’s all the help that you’re getting from me. Guls help you if you cannot manage to kill him with my hand holding you this far.”

“I could’ve helped you, brother,” Oranda pouts leaning against the frame of the door to the balcony.

“With what, styling his hair?” Nelissa looks thoughtful as Oranda sulks. “And who will you send? Even past his prime the snake is cunning, and fights best when backed into a corner.”

“Certainly none of your subordinates. I have no desire to quarrel with you over the spoils of victory.”

“I’ll be waiting for you to fail. And you _will_ Mekor. You’re a bureaucrat, not a killer.” Theres a small smirk on Mekor’s face at that statement.

“That may be true. But a good bureaucrat _knows_ killers.”

“You know how to polish Father’s scales,” Nelissa retorts. Two loud bursts of laughter from the couch prompt a snappy remark from Oranda.

“And what will the two _children_ do? Lock him in a closet and call him names?”

“You’re just mad that we’re gonna kill him first,” Kasella taunts.

“Just in time for Father’s birthday,” Illiana agrees.

“And you’ll have to buy Father another broach that he wont wear.”

“Or another tunic that he gives to Mekor.” More giggles follow and Oranda makes an annoyed click of irritation.

“If that’s settled then.” Zorana interrupts with a slow, elegant unfurl to her feet, stretching. “Then We shouldn’t need to convene again until there is more news. It’s decided. Mekor shall try for the snake next. Are there any objections?” She looks around the room until her eyes settle in Ziyal. All eyes turn to her once more and she shakes her head.

“It’s not for me, I’ve already told you that. It’s for Father. For our _family_. That’s all that matters, right?” She stands, Tekenny leaning in to let their cheeks brush affectionately.

“Our sister is right of course, that is all that matters,” he declares, Mekor too rises with a dismissive toss of his head.

“Yes, our noble brother, avenging our sister’s honor. Perhaps you and Nelissa are part Klingon, after all.” Nelissa bristles but Tekenny waves him off as he makes for the door brushing past far too closely, aggressively.

“Say what you will, brother, but when the lot of you fail, I will gladly step in so poor Ziyal doesn’t have to kill the snake herself.”

And there’s a click of heels on the hard floor as Ziyal steps forward purposefully, sure to have all of their attention as she speaks. 

“You say that as if... as if that would be a terribly hard thing, as if the worst thing that man did was seduce me into his bed,” she says softly, steel interlacing her voice as she faces each of them. They turn away from that simmering fury in her eyes, the pain lanced through almost unbearable to meet head on. “No, if I have to. I will.” She pushes past to the door, only lingering a moment, her shoulders tense as her nails scrape the trim of the frame. 

“Or have you all forgotten already, that Elim Garak killed our child?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there might be some confusion with this so I'll give a brief overview (I had to make a chart myself). Dukat's children in this are, name, age and gender:
> 
> Ziyal 28/f  
> Tekenny 26/m  
> Nelissa 25/f  
> Mekor 21/m  
> Zorana 20/f  
> Oranda 17/f  
> Kasella 12/f (twin)  
> Illiana 12/f (twin)


	28. Shooting High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jadzia passes the saving throw with a natural 20 to get on board. What happens next is anyone's guess!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's Sunday in Nova Scotia so here's an early Renegades update! A brief note obnoxiously in caps... IF THIS CHAPTER FEELS LIKE SOMETHING'S MISSING YOU MIGHT HAVE MISSED CHAPTER 26... cause last week was a double chapter post :D Anyway, I can't help my love for Jadzia and am excited about some of the things we'll be finding out shortly. Stay tuned, 'cause nothing's ever what it seems. Thank you everyone for reading and commenting! You all make this ride a lot more fun. And as always, C&C is always welcome!

_Emony Dax was a gymnast._ That’s the first thing Garak thinks as he watches her close in on the ship, a sudden lurch his cue that they are in fact taking off. _What could he possibly be thinking? There is no way that she’ll be able to jump even were we still on the ground._ Garak watches her as she shifts on the horse, the anchors not raised but actually released into the sandy ground to likely be recovered over until the next landing. _Ah, so this is an actual designated landing site after all._ Garak hears a yelp from behind, imagining the former Valiant crew clinging desperately to the rails, likely more fearful in their ignorance than he. At least, Garak thinks, he has some rudimentary understanding of the craft. An understanding, which in a way likely makes him more uneasy, however Julian had assured him that the materials employed since the inception of the zeppelin design in pre warp Earth history have come quite a long way over the centuries and further honed by native Westworld metals.

Still, none of that begins to touch on the madness possessing Jadzia as Garak watches, almost horrified, as she shifts on the back of the chestnut horse, coming to her knees on the saddle. He hadn’t noticed that before but Jadzia is close enough to make out in detail now; his left eye should hardly be strained in such a way with his right covered but he’s certain Julian will heal him just as he scolds him later. The Klingon behind Jadzia appears to scream something likely lost in the wind, his mouth open, and it makes Garak wonder where her usual Klingon associates are in the midst of this chaos. He watches as the head of the running Klingon ducks down as if he might make a sprint for the beast. It makes him wonder if such a feat is physiologically possible. 

Garak has never paid much mind to intergalactic athletic competitions, particularly the runners; Cardassians have never excelled in that area and as a matter of pride he’s never seen fit to endure the raucous taunts of drunken barflies watching the Quadrennial Olympic whatever it’s called featuring the traditionally poorly faring Cardassian track team. _Humans and their athletics. Leave it to the Federation, to the humans, to bring such a garish circus display drawing in even the most stalwart to watch such an obscenity._ The embarrassment that was the ill-fated Cardassian bobsled team had been bad enough to keep him from ever deciding to watch that misery ever again. _Really, whoever heard of a Cardassian bobsled team? Talak Paras was never the same after the Gul’s damn thing flew off the track and didn’t that cost you an entire week’s paltry earnings on Romulus?_

Flashbacks aside, Jadzia is performing admirably, both feet planted now, barefoot, he can see as she reaches down for that length of rope. _This clearly wasn’t planned. She’s still wearing her stockings and a dress that clearly had to be hiked up to ride that horse. Doubtless the shoes were long abandoned but how she’s going to do anything in that impractical garment will surely be a sight._ What catches his eye spectacularly though at that moment, aside from the green ruffled skirt which he now realizes has been torn mid thigh, is the glint of silver that he sees at the end of the rope. Jadzia’s face is grim as she stands, shaky, slow, and he nearly stupidly holds a hand out _._ But no, Garak keeps his hand steady as she rides closer, almost next to the ascending airship. He can tell by the shadow and her shape that there is still considerable distance and no way that she could even so much as touch the bottom. The Klingon seems to sense it as well, redoubling his effort, no more than several meters between them now.

And that is when she does the most spectacular thing that he’s ever witnessed in person- no mean feat given her showcase that night a few months ago. Jadzia takes the rope, and he watches her carefully measuring a length, holding tight, the silver end in fact a four pronged hook that she begins to twirl furiously. His eye attempts to measure the distance, and even accounting for weight, for wind, he cannot imagine in any universe that she truly means to attempt what he knows she’s about to. _The rate of climb, the distance, there cannot possibly be any way for her to-_ And Garak jumps back instinctively, mid thought as the hook sails neatly over the railing. He realizes that the ship is not ascending as quickly as it should given the information Julian provided but of course that would be the intent. The hook pulls back carefully, and Garak nearly throws himself over the rail as he watches with horrified fascination, Jadzia Dax swinging wildly from the end of that rope that he guesses is already a few meters off the ground.

There is a near comical moment when at last, the Klingon in pursuit throws himself at the dangling legs before falling face down in the dirt with a loud curse. Garak would almost laugh if he weren’t half panicked at the thought of this entire mad scheme going horribly awry. He looks quickly, moving to see if there’s any sight of Julian down deck through that small window in the door but he sees nothing. He does, however see the rather strapping Mr. Watters staring open mouthed at the sight of the woman on the end of the rope.

“Come on, man, are you just going to stand there or are you going to give a hand?” Garak certainly hopes that he obeys that barking order because as soon as he reaches down and grabs the rope fibers, he realizes that the weight at the end is definitely beyond his ability to confidently pull in rapid succession. He also realizes that his head is starting to swim from watching the one eyed motion and he may very well have to do this with the eye closed.

But Garak sees a blink, a moment’s hesitation in a glance exchanged with Farris, but thankfully, Watters is there next to him large hands secured easily, the rope moving much smoother with that extra muscle. Garak is relieved; he knows he’s already going to be sore in the morning and likely nursing a headache, but as the slowly raising rope pulls Jadzia rather inelegantly up the side of the ship he is assured by her smile. He doesn’t see any worry, any sign of strain, and though he’d been impressed initially at her physical condition before, there is a bit of mystery added to that which he files away for a later time. He is careful, of course, to control the pull, to let it go easily as much as he wants nothing more than to have her on deck as quickly as possible. A few times he has to keep the pace for Watters, the rush of adrenaline obvious, but it isn’t long before there’s a rather impressive coil of rope behind them, and a beaming Jadzia skillfully vaulting over the rail, nearly giving him a heart attack in the process. He is pleased to note that Watters’ reaction is no less wide eyed and he steps back as she brushes herself off with a bit of bounce in her step.

“Well,” she says with a mischievous grin, dress covered in dust, a tatters that while terribly inviting makes the tailor in him despair, “that was certainly invigorating!”

“Always a pleasure to see you, Jadzia,” Garak replies with a slight bow as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for a woman on horseback to scale the side of a moving airship. Farris is the first forward, mouth tight in that way Garak’s learned precedes some dressing down or caustic remark.

“You know each other,” she accuses.

“A most astute observation,” Garak praises exuberantly unable to help that instinct to bait, a failing of character, he’d been told more than once. 

“We’ve already made an allowance for the pilot’s _mother_ , Cardassian, whatever game you’re playing, the Federation-”

“Yes, the Federation tolerates no chicanery, tomfoolery, skullduggery, any of those charming euphemisms you have for good old fashioned double crosses, but I assure you this was certainly not part of my… nefarious plan.” He waggles his fingers taunting.

“Am I intruding on a nefarious plan, Garak?” Jadzia says looking far too excited as she gives him a slight elbow poke. He shakes his head, disinclined to further the game with Farris, far more interested in this new twist in the plan. Jadzia is already unhooking the rope, beginning a steady roll and re-coiling.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re not taking on any more civilians for this trip. If you need us to drop you somewhere we might be able-”

“Well then, Captain, You’re in luck,” Jadzia interrupts Watters with an impossibly bright smile as she quickly and efficiently rolls around one arm. “Lieutenant Commander, Jadzia Dax at your service.” She holds the coil of rope, one arm through securing it in place for the moment. “I don’t believe you have a science officer for this expedition, now do you?” She stands firm, wearing every bit of her station even in half a dress. “Of course as a fellow Starfleet Officer, I’d be honored to offer my services.” Drawn up, Garak notes that she easily looks Watters in the eye and he clearly has no idea how to answer that sudden surprise.

Garak himself realizes, that in all her long wonderful tales of Curzon, or Emony, Torias, all of her lives and memories, the past of Jadzia Dax herself somehow managed to remain glossed over and neatly kept secret except for a few vague childhood anectdotes. In fact, Garak reasons, there’s likely a great deal about the current circumstance now that would be easily explained if he had more information. _And now you face that conundrum, Elim. Put yourself in the middle of yet another tangent on this trip or keep your focus on the mission at hand._ The mission being the West Continent and finally getting off this ridiculous backwards planet, but more than that, the careful bond building between himself and Julian. _Yes, you’ve more allies now and perhaps it might not be necessary but then again, just where do Julian’s loyalties lie where the Federation and Section 31 are concerned? You’ve no idea what he whispered to them, for all you know this is in fact nothing but a ruse to murder you for the keys. For all you know Jadzia’s presence here might be a carefully calculated manipulation._

There are innumerable decisions to be made, and not a lot of time to make them. Of course he knows the trip to the West Continent itself will be a good five days, weather permitting. Garak does not relish the thought of hovering two hundred meters above the ground should a storm rock them, but Julian assured him that Molly was experienced enough to navigate even the most volatile of weather patterns. _Ignoring the weather for the moment, you might have five days to work but not five days to decide. The sooner you get to Julian, the sooner you cement his loyalty, awaken that protective instinct, do whatever it takes to make Gul’s damned sure he’s willing to die for you if not kill for you, the better. But this could be a wrench in that… or is it truly? Jadzia has already demonstrated a willingness to kill for him- to kill for anyone she considers a friend. No, don’t think of it as a wrench, Elim, you remember that much from your training. Obstacles are nothing but weapons to add to your arsenal. And if you can turn them both to your favor…_

Garak makes that determination just as Watters decides that he needs to consult with Farris- and strangely enough, Collins, Garak notes- before turning back around. He’d forgotten the quiet woman entirely finding it curious that she isn’t with Nog. Jadzia watches that tactical retreat with a grin as she looks at him that twinkle still in her eye.

“Well now _you_ might not be scandalized seeing me like this but I’d better throw something a little more modest on. Can’t have a Starfleet Officer on duty parading around like this now, can we?” She dances on past, doubtless familiar with the layout of the ship, and he sees no reason not to follow. After all, he needs to see to his own belongings and room, and figure out just exactly how this voyage is to proceed. Jadzia moves purposefully, but not quickly enough to discourage company, and Garak falls into step beside her down the stairs and through the large door to the main cabin.

“Perhaps I might accompany you,” Garak offers as they walk down the long hall and through the large great room he’d first entered, “although Julian might wonder where the two of us have run off to… Lieutenant.”

“I thought we’d dropped the formalities, _Mister_ Garak.” Jadzia takes a slight lead down the adjacent corridor that’s lined with closed doors.

“Ah, but that was before I learned that I was in the company of a commanding officer.” Jadzia gives him a sly grin in response, turning right down another hallway stopping in front of a closed door to the right. She enters familiarly, the room brightly streaming in sun from the round window. It’s small, but Garak can definitely see her touch in the stack of records next to the victrola- Klingon Opera, no doubt- on the desk in front of the window, the full size bed a mass of multi colored pillows and colors, another small bookshelf bracing several different volumes of fiction. He follows her inside and she closes the door leaving it unlocked behind her. He can feel the curious twitch of his face as she laughs softly.

“ _Ex_ commanding officer,” Jadzia informs him cheerfully with a saucy wink as she lets the remainder of the dusty, tattered dress slip from her shoulders. “And don’t worry about Julian. He’ll know where to find us.” Garak takes a deep breath and makes a study of the books on the shelf as she presumably disrobes the rest of the way.

“Is it prudent then for him to encounter us in such a position?” 

“And what position might that be?” she teases in a tone that dares him to turn around and look, and maybe do more than that. Garak dismisses it initially and that is when another step towards that bookshelf with his back to her leads him to the sight of the mirror bolted to the wall next to it. One subtle glance towards it with his uncovered eye and she meets that little shift in expression dead on, not the least bit shy about her state of undress. “Or was that an invitation?” she practically purrs, a faint flush to her skin, likely still riding that adrenaline high. Garak continues to look even as he takes a treatise on the history of the early Federation years from the shelf, opening to a random page. 

Jadzia is stripped down, nude, looking Gul’s damned tempting as she removes an odd segmented belt of fabric from low on her hips, the last garment that remains after her other clothes have been tossed careless onto the bed. His gaze lingers above that open page, on her long fingers unvelcroing the piece, sliding slowly, just a bit naughtily over her sex to further emphasize that proposition.

“I must admit you’ve piqued my... curiosity,” Garak says as he watches her examining each square of that length carefully. _Among other things as well, but whatever erotic scene this might lead to, you know that I won’t forget the questions that all of this has brought to the forefront. Especially in light of the lie you seem determined to weave for the enemy outside._ He wonders what it is she’s observing, hair messily spilling from its previous updo over her shoulder. She worries her lower lip looking at two squares in particular, and his eyes fall from that absent sensual afterthought down further into danger when he sees just the tops of her nipples above her arms and the fabric. Her eyes meet his once more in that looking glass.

“You know that Julian is hardly the jealous type,” she says again with that offer as he turns a page to Jonathan Archer’s first encounter with the Andorrians.

He takes a slow deep breath as she seems to decide on one square in particular and tries not to recall those hips in particular.

“And what type might you be then, my dear Jadzia?” he asks, the question far deeper than mere fliration. Jadzia laughs softly with a shake of her head.

“Oh… I’ve been AWOL for oh... about twenty years now, I think,” she throws out offhanded. Garak aklmost chooses that moment to look away but becomes interested when she releases something and begins to pull what is absolutely a Starfleet science officer’s uniform neatly from that pouch. “I’ve never faced a court martial, you know. They’d have to catch me for that. But I think at this point I know what the verdict would be.” He realizes then that the other squares must contain similar changes of clothes, at least a dozen in all then. Clever, beautifully clever. “But those two didn’t need to know that, did they?” she asks conspiratorially, releasing more modern undergarments from another adjacent square. Garak keeps the laughter from his voice.

“It would seem an extraneous detail,” he agrees as she considers the change of clothes.

“I really should wash up first,” Jadzia says with a sigh as she looks down at the dirt covering her arms and legs. “Two rooms on this side share a bathroom.” She motions towards the door next to the bed. “I hate to waste the water so early on but...” She shrugs. “We can desalinate plenty on the trip. We _are_ going to the West Continent, after all, right?” He doesn’t answer her, that information highly confidential, after all, and merely settles for a smile as he closes the book and decides that he might as well hunt for Julian after all while she bathes and changes.

“I believe I’ll see myself out, then,” he says with a nod to the mirror and a turn in the opposite direction. What he finds- he would say unexpectedly but really it’s not terribly so- that opposite direction turns back to her as well, and in that short span of time she’d neatly outmaneuvered him in the large room.

Garak notes, absently that the room is rather warm- pleasantly so in fact- and he can feel a faint hot breeze blowing and he catches sight of a small metallic grate on the lower wall near the bed.With his very next thought he curses himself for such an old man’s consideration. Jadzia raises an inviting brow, as if sensing that internal struggle.

“Of course I wouldn’t want to needlessly wash if I were expecting to get dirty again right away. Especially no in the presence of such a disreputable rogue.” She takes a step into his personal space, though she does not go so far as to touch him, looking at his eyepatch pointedly with that statement.

“Now whatever would give you cause for such a concern?” he asks with a flick of his tongue tasting the dirt, the sweat in the air just a few inches from her face, that responsible agent in him now cursing the fool being led by his-

“Let’s get dirty, Garak.”

She doesn’t hesitate to touch him then, her fingers nimbly undoing the top button of his shirt, collar carefully starched giving way to that assault. Garak allows her to take the lead, deciding that a shift in perception is needed from their earlier games. _Yes, if she, if Julian think you too capable as a fighter, then they’ll be that less likely to step forward where it may be needed._ Not that it’s terribly difficult when she’s so determined. Garak shivers at her mouth, the room nearly starting to spin and he thinks maybe that he’s pushed too far with his vision already. Julian had warned him that was possible, that he wasn’t fully recovered from the use of his more exotic alien ocular abilities, as Julian so eloquently phrased it while sticking him with that vile needle. Except Julian is not here so that leaves the entire issue rather-

_Julian_ _is_ _here._ Garak realizes brilliantly just as he feels steadying arms around him from behind and Julian’s presence suddenly there at his back warm, hard, catching him annoyingly off guard. It doesn’t make the spinning stop but it lessens the need to worry about a sudden fall, the strength behind him solid and steady, just as the heavy breathing on the same side as Jadzia.

“I thought I told you to take it easy,” Julia teases to his ear and he sucks in a breath, sandwiched neatly between the top of them not sure if opening that eye would improve the situation in the slightest. He settles for keeping it closed, breathing deep, letting his focus remain tactile, olfactory, auditory.

“I’ll be gentle with him, Julian,” Jadzia whispers back and he feels another button come undone.

He becomes aware that it might in fact be Julian’s fingers that work, neatly slipped under his arms, four sets of hands kneading, unfastening, exploring. Ah, but he can easily tell Julian’s from Jadzia’s, that wash of breath stealing a fraction of his focus as the two of them talk.

“Surely you can’t mean to keep him all to yourself,” Julian protests, and he can feel their alternate mouths to his ear, behind, to his neck, heating him up with impressive quickness.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she swears and he almost thinks he feels rather than hears their mouths meeting briefly, almost oddly chaste.

“You know you’re still going to have to deal with Worf once we’re back.” 

“Worf?” The name means nothing to Garak though he suspects it likely has to do with the Klingon left face down in the dirt outside of Indigo. He has no idea that he’s even spoken the words out loud until the two insatiable humans cease their rather pleasant assault all of a sudden at the query. Julian is the first to speak, voice light, though still containing that thread of uncertainty as he speaks. There is an unspoken but heavily implied “didn’t she tell you?” when Julian begins, though it hardly needs to be said as Garak opens his eyes at last, the brightness almost unbearable to that one uncovered eye, Jadzia looking unrepentantly repentant as the words come out, an unpleasant splash of cold water.

“Worf, is Jadzia’s husband.” 


	29. Face to Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threesome cut short, Garak might just have to turn this to a divide and conquer mission, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so much for early updates. Anyway I went back and forth a bit with this one and decided to just go for it, as the saying goes. And then all the build up pushed the "good part" back a chapter but at least it'll give me a little time to see just how graphic to get. Also, fear not, at some point we are definitely getting a Garak sammich 'cause yum :D Thank you everyone for your comments and support! C&C is always welcome!

“ _Ex_ husband,” Jadzia corrects tartly as she takes a step back and looks at Julian with a faint scowl that swims almost double with the strain on his uncovered eye. Garak closes it again, paying particular attention to the fact that Julian is more or less supporting his entire weight without any noticeable strain. He certainly makes a note of that for later.

“He seems to have had a change of heart,” Julian says pointedly, his breath on Garak’s neck thrilling enough to make even the most banal of statements halfway arousing. 

“He’s about twenty years too late,” Jadzia fires back and he hears a sigh that prompts him to open that eye again, wincing as the room comes back into focus.

This could certainly go either way, and Garak is aware that he in part has the ability to shift the nature of the conversation should he so choose. But the question now becomes one of whether or not he should encourage a continuation of this infinity enticing _menage a trois-_ as Jadzia had naughtily taught him the phrase some weeks back- or work them one at a time. The latter is easier, the former more exciting. The decision however appears to have been made when he feels a nudge towards the bed.

“It might be best if you were to rest a moment, Garak, I believe I might need to have a word with Jadzia about the fickle nature of your impairment.” Garak can tell even without looking that Julian’s eyes haven’t left Jadzia.

_Not the jealous type, is he?_ Garak thinks with amusement as he agrees and takes a seat on chair at the desk. He takes that tome up again, deciding that he can while a few moments away feigning interest in Federation history while the two of them discuss whatever he’s sure concerns the current situation. A few steps, a drop in tone, and Garak is pleasantly surprised to find that their volume underestimates Cardassian hearing just enough to be overheard.

“You didn’t have to do that, Julian,” he hears Jadzia speaking first.

“Haven’t you already played around with him enough? Surely you’ve had plenty of opportunity if you’d seriously wanted to make a go these past few months, you didn’t have to wait ‘til now.”

“I thought he was a “dangerous operative to be avoided at all costs?””

“He is absolutely dangerous just… just not in the way that I’d first thought.”

“Oh so this is a concern for my safety? Really, Julian, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Let me handle him,” Julian insists and Garak realizes somewhat smugly that the jealousy is not over her but over _him._ He cannot help the slight draw of his spine and the small smile that crosses his face as he realizes the page was nowhere near the one he’d been on before. _Sloppy work, Elim._ He discreetly flips back, wondering if he might be able to parlay this into a fun little game. _Game? Listen to yourself, you fool. This is not a game, you have a very real situation on your hands, and whatever you do it’s best to keep harmony amongst your allies and make Gul’s damned_ _certain_ _that they have every reason to keep you alive. You have a golden opportunity and all you can think about is pitting the two of them against each other for your affections. Are you some debutante watching suitors battle for your favor. Really, at your age, you know exactly what it is that you need to do._

Garak closes the book a bit more loudly than necessary, that determination having been made, and he sees as he turns around that the two of them seem to have forgotten his presence entirely for the moment. He did not catch the last few spoke words but he can imagine them well enough. 

“I do hate to interrupt such a fascinating discussion, but I feel that I’m in the best position to determine who will be in charge of my… handling.” He smiles nicely at the both of them, the huff from Julian as he realizes the two of them have been overheard completely precious.

“We’re not fighting over you,” Julian says far too defensively to be anything but an admission of just that. Jadzia laughs softly, standing with her arms behind her back, a slight amused duck of her head, eyes regarding him mischievously.

“You know, Julian, Cardassians _hate_ to be left out of good conversation.” She holds up a hand as Julian appears set to give another heated retort. “But you’re right. I’m being selfish, aren’t I? I’m certain that Garak must be tired after the day that he’s had so far.”

Absolutely exhausted,” Garak agrees with mock seriousness. Julian raises an eyebrow, mouth quirked just a bit at the corner.

“You don’t say...”

“The lady has spoken, dear Julian,” Garak finishes neatly. “I would consider it a privilege to leave my… handling to your skillful touch.”

 Jadzia laughs, headed for the bathroom to wash. Julian shakes his head. Garak allows his eye to linger over the curve of her back, those hips, remembering for that moment just how nice the feel of her body is. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” she calls back as the two of them let themselves out.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Garak agrees, his mind more than made up.

“Tired, are we?” Julian asks as he shuts the door shuts behind the both of them. 

“I _am_ feeling a bit worn from such a harrowing take off,” Garak suggests. “And as much as I’d love to see the grand tour of the ship, we _will_ be on this excursion for a good while so it would seem wise to have you show me to my quarters.”

“Not feeling up to socializing are we?” Julian asks beginning to walk further down the corridor passing two more doors on the right and three on the left. Garak follows obediently with a faint smirk.

“I don’t think I could handle dividing my attention amongst so many fascinating people.” He sees Julian stop at a door at the end of the hall taking a key out of his pocket. “But I might be able to manage one at a time...” He leaves that statement hanging, the door opening to reveal an excess of luxury that seems completely impractical given the weight limitations he’s sure such a craft possesses. Garak finds himself distracted momentarily by the sight that greets him. 

The room is massive, the floor hardwood, showing off to the right a small table for dining with two chairs that appear held into a track sliding in and out, likely locking into position should the need arise. behind them lies a window above a large armoire and the trunks they’d packed earlier that morning strapped down. In front of them rest the bags Julian had brought for their boarding. There’s a beautifully carved sofa closer than that, and two more bookcases securing an assortment of texts. He catches sight of the door off to the left which he assumes to be another bathroom, but far in the back, the sight that catches his eye the most is the bed. It is a monster. That is the only word he can think to describe the carved piece that seems to have grown organically out from the wall itself. It is a ridiculous display of ostentation with its’ massive posts spiraling up into a grand canopy, the curtains pulled back for an array of pillows, the pale blue duvet a contrast to the dark wood that cradles it. Garak imagines it must be large enough for three if not four people as he continues to stare. _Well, Julian had said that the young Miss O’Brien occasionally operates a tour when not hauling precious cargo but I never imagined..._

“I’m glad to hear it,” Julian says at last as he steps aside motioning for Garak to enter. A few uncertain steps forward, and Gark nearly misses the close of the door behind him, the smile evident in Julian’s voice. “Seeing as how we’ll be sharing the space.” _Yes, seeing as how we’ll be sharing..._ That thought cuts off leaving Garak to wonder if he’s merely imagining some innuendo, or if it’s truly there. It’s far too easy for his thoughts to take a quick turn in that base direction given the scene moments ago, but that seems almost too good to be true.

“Surely your concern for my recovery cannot be so great, Julian, that you feel it necessary to monitor my good health so closely.” He sees as he studies the titles on the shelf more carefully, as he looks to the maps, to the anatomy charts on the wall that this could be none other than Julian’s second home away from home. He takes note of a desk in the corner that is only visible now that he turns. “I assure you that I’m quite comfortable with simplicity.”

Julian closes the door and takes a few steps but doesn’t stand next to him. Instead he remains behind close, hot, and Garak feels a hot rush of air in the room, a warm welcome stream that feels almost humid. It would seem, as the Vulcans would say, illogical for such a high heat and moisture content in a room full of parchments and wood, but he’s still learning that the materials and objects on Westworld are not always as primitive as they appear. He decides that more research may be in order then, as that would certainly explain the lack of extra weight by so many large pieces of furniture. Ah, but for now his attention is entirely on Julian behind, hands on his shoulders in a manner that would seem threatening if that heat wasn’t already enveloping him like a warm sensual bath.

“I don’t trust you, Garak,” Julian says to him softly, likely trying to affect a deadly quiet. To the sensitive nerves along his neck, however that threat warms to an adrenaline fueled heat of an entirely different sort. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but don’t think for a moment that I’m about to let you out of my sight.”

He lets go, walking past to the trunks, Garak standing still, surprised at the almost undetectable movement from what is certainly a moving craft. _Consider then, Elim you have a ship of nine, and of those nine only you and the O’Brien’s daughter are the only ones with no connections to Starfleet past or present. You have two, at most three allies to rendezvous in the absolute best case scenario should all this turn to be a trap. There is a lot of convenience, a lot of coincidence, and you know better than anyone the folly of believing in that. There are either two factions at odds aboard of which you are tenuously aligned to one or it is all of them against you. But given what you know of those with you now it seems unlikely. It would’ve been nothing to obtain the keys while you were incapacitated so no... No right now, this is still your game to play and still yours to win. And to win right now, Elim you need allies._ He watches Julian bending over the trunk, presumably to begin unpacking. _Yes, tight, solid, allies..._

“It seems that you have me at a disadvantage, Julian,” Garak concedes as Julian opens the armoire and begins moving clothes. He takes that time to make a study of the bed.

“You’d like me to think that, wouldn’t you?”

“Such a suspicious mind you have. It appears a commonality amongst those with ties to Section 31.” Garak tosses that out as he runs his fingers over the thick post deciding that it’s not wood, after all. Julian stops and stiffens at that remark.

“We’re not talking about that.”

“Now while I wouldn’t expect you to divulge the contents of your one sided conversation to young Mr. Watters, to cut off the discussion with such finality, dear Julian, you wound me to the core as a Cardassian.” Julian pauses, on his knees in front of the trunk with a handful of shirts. he looks back over his shoulder with an unrepentant little grin. 

“Suffer,” is all he says, moving the lot to a drawer. “In fact, Mr. Garak, if anyone’s asking any questions here, I seem to remember _you_ owing _me_ two more completely honest answers.”

“I’m an open book,” Garak assures him, an earnest spread of his arms which Julian snorts at. 

“Really?” He drawls, closing the trunk lid with a click. Julian walks over as Garak begins feeling the material of the dark blue canopy, tied prettily parted, half around the post. It feels far lighter than the opaqueness of the fabric would suggest. “Do you actually expect me to believe that?”

“Are those your two questions?” Garak asks, letting the fabric go, debating on snipping a piece discreetly later. It felt like a waterfall beneath his touch and he rather liked the feel. Julian removes the sunglasses, tossing them on the bed, and fixes him with a glare from those hazel eyes that’s terribly attractive. Perhaps he can arrange an accident for these spectacles as well. But it is also in those eyes, in the tightness of muscles that Garak finally becomes aware of, that he realizes the tension still between them. He isn’t sure if he missed it because of his visual impairment or lack of focus but now that that awareness has recaptured him full force, he finds Julian’s proximity almost painfully distracting. 

“You’re still playing games with me,” Julian accuses. Garak considers carefully the response. It would be a simple matter to continue the familiar Cardassian courtship. He sings for it at the heart, to meet him on that equal playing field. _But you know better than that, Elim. You’ve been trained far better. No, you’re not seducing as a Cardassian, you’re not encouraging that mutual matching of wit today. Drawn it down. Drawn him in._

“Have you considered, Julian,” Garak says, taking a small step back, “that perhaps games are all that I have?” He sees a frown form, a small furrow of confusion.

“What are you talking about, Garak?” Garak runs his fingers over the duvet covering the bed, absently. Julian hasn’t come any closer yet.

“I’m simply asking to you consider, Julian, what else you would have me defend myself with in circumstances such as these?” Another small brush to the fabric. Another small step away.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. This entire situation is all at your-”

“If I’m completely honest with you, Julians, I’m afraid,” Garak says, voice lowered but still steady, not overdone but just enough to- _There we are, that’s a good boy._ Julian closes that small gap, back into personal space.

“What are you afraid of?” _The first question the hero asks, for the white knight will always do that. Ah, my dear Jadzia your lessons have proven such a boon to me on my sojourn here._ Garak holds that silence. He doesn’t immediately answer because he knows the longer that it drags out that the next step will be- “Garak?” Louder, more insistent, Julian _must_ know the meaning of such a statement, naturally, and Garak’s response is a not too dramatic draw of breath as if he is considering some weighty confession, lifting his head just enough to count the whorls of the wood on the headboard while counting down until- “Look at me Garak.” Julian’s hands are on his shoulders, turning, guiding him to that command, eye contact, that comes next, and Garak resists a slow, almost disbelieving blink that it played so textbook close to perfect. In a way it’s almost disappointing and he wants to rail against Julian for playing right into that disgusting tired trope in book after book of bodice ripping nonsense. _Ah, but it’s as the Westworld expression goes, we play the hand that we’re dealt do we not?_ And the hand in this case is terribly cliche and follows some dramatic line from this point to torrid messy coupling.

Garak decides at that point that he doesn’t particularly have the stomach right now for such an indignity when Julian entreats him softly, ridiculously earnestly given his words just minutes ago.

“Please, Garak.” A squeeze, gentle, tender, Garak takes another hard breath, deciding to spare them both the embarrassment of whatever tripe was about to regurgitate from his painfully vivid memories of Jadzia’s coveted collection of Westworld erotica. He can say it all with a look anyway, it’s far easier, far neater, and he lets his expression shift, letting the recall of that interrupted encounter fuel the heat in that look as he lets it simmer. And to that there appears a moment of recognition, of Julian seeming to almost call him on such a ridiculous charade. But his gamble was just as he expected and instead the hands on his shoulders move inward, long fingers brushing over the ridges with a delicacy as the touch his bare neck that they force a gasp unbidden that just adds to the effect. He watches Julian lick his lips, wetting them nicely, knowing more of that human mouth mashing is coming then. He can see Julian almost damning himself for bringing things this far, this close. He’d be doing the same were their roles reversed, but the desire is far too evident to be denied and Julian seems to know it as well. 

“Fucking lizard,” he think he hears Julian swear with a waver in his voice that makes him grin not quite smugly as Julian plays right into his hands, and kisses him. _Fucking lizard, indeed._


	30. Flesh and the Spur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh... fucking and more fucking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the longest chapter yet, I'm not sure but it's probably the chapter that everyone's been waiting for. Really the only thing to say is just long drawn out banging with no plot advancement except if you've read my other works you'd know this is actually pretty short for me haha. I considered if I should bump this up in rating but at this point people would probably be expecting a lot more sex a lot sooner, I dunno, if people complain I will but for me this is kinda uh... tame? Anyway, thank you everyone for coming along with me this far! C&C is always welcome.

_Jealousy is truly a powerful emotion and quite an effective weapon if wielded properly._ That was a lesson he’d learned early enough and he finds it working out quite to his favor here. Garak has always been careful not to culture any particular behavior, any instinct that could prove to be a liability. He might find himself in that case in a fight for dominance, some alpha male growling scratching wrestling match, and while that certainly has its place it would be quite a vexing gut reaction to try and fight. Instead Garak considers, as he allows Julian’s tongue to push past his lips, a few moves ahead, calculating exactly how much passivity can be cultivated without seeming put on or undesirable. He has no dossier on any of Julian’s previous partners, Jadzia certainly not from anything he can read, and likely not Leeta for the sole reason that she’s still alive in stark contrast to Julian’s declaration that those he’s loved- _Ah, but loved or lusted over, Elim, that’s a very important distinction. Was Julian speaking in Federation Standard when he said that or not?_ Garak decides it isn’t worth such a diversion of attention and decides therefore to just “go with the flow” as the saying follows.

He brings a hand up to Julian’s shoulder, as if some warning that things are going to fast, as if he might push, and he feels a slow to Julian’s tongue in return, feels a pause to breathe, likely to give Garak a chance to decline to take this further. Garak is quite pleased with Julian’s level of control though it’s still quite an early stage of the endeavor to be a foolproof predictor, it’s a good sign of his receptiveness to queues, to body language. Garak doesn’t push him back, but rather squeezes, as he takes a small short step turn so that his back is to the bed and he feels Julian eagerly step into that space, one foot neatly between his. He feels a hand on his hip, keeping him in place, not yet urging him back, again commendable restraint in his estimation. 

“Garak...” he hears or more feels pressed sloppily to the side of is mouth, his cheek, a wet trailed murmured his name a few more times and upon the third or forth he suppresses the urge to answer with a smart “yes?” He wonders if in this instance he ought to be returning the favor with some moan of Julian’s name but when Julian’s mouth meets that ridge running from his ear down his neck, he loses that thought- actually he loses more than just that one- and instead finds his fingers still caught on the fabric, jerk sharply with his arm. There’s a rip of that shoulder seam, shoddy work if the stitches tear so readily and his eye flutters to that spot seeing far more skin that he really wants to taste.

“It seems...” his speech catches, Julian’s teeth sharp but not too sharp along those sensitive ridges, sucking, drawn between those teeth and he nearly loses coherent speech entirely. “I... I owe you a shirt...” He swallows, letting that one eye close tightly, hearing Julian laugh, feeling a wiggle of an arm working the garment off that side of his body entirely just as fingers start to play at his own collar.

“A shirt, glasses, what else are you going to owe me Garak?”

Garak opens his mouth to answer, Julian’s head turning, Garak’s head tipping back eye still closed, that vertigo growing to a dizzying swirl of color behind his eyelid feeling fingers deftly working the buttons of his shirt. He nearly swallows a breath when Julian’s mouth attacks his throat, tongue trilling, skin pulled again, bitten, surely bruised, and that attempted “anything” is morphed hastily to some “ah haa haa...” It sounds odd to his ears, an unusually accented cry from so many hours of Federation Standard speech. If asked he would have guessed the natural hisses, the tongue sibilance to be so deeply ingrained that no matter the circumstances, lost in that need he would pass those before any other. But there it is, a sound alien to his own ears, but clearly not to Julian’s.

“Yess... oh yes yes,” Julian gasps and it would seem that oddly articulated cry is what Julian needs to take that next step. He doesn’t gently urge, that control likely slipping then, but there’s a much more insistent push of his hips, that displaced equilibrium sending Garak backwards on the soft, noticeably bouncy, mattress. He lets that hold remain to Julian’s shoulder sure that it shouldn’t be strong enough to pull him down should he choose not to go but he’s quite game, following that tug eagerly.

Garak debates some line from his disgustingly long repertoire of memorized entreaties from all those Guls damned books but he decides against it. _Deciding against conversation, my the things you put yourself through for the cause, Elim._ He doesn’t dwell on that overly much. After all, there will be plenty of time should he survive to- _To what? remain on world for the sake of unbridled fornicating with an augment you’re far better off leaving alone? Yes, let Tain know you’ll be on extended leave so you and he can rut like animals instead of tending to your duties._ No, he’s not going to allow that now. He’ll have time later for self recrimination and at the very least you’ll have an equally lengthy voyage back to “do the deed” properly. Yes, the thought of them on this bed rolling, clutching, clawing, comes to him quite nicely just as Julian pushes against him seeking more intimate contact. He feels the shirt pushed back, parting inelegantly like some offensive gift wrapping, and he shrugs out of it, sealing his mouth back to Julian’s in the process.

Garak supposes he’ll grow accustomed to this... unique way of kissing, of overly amorous fluid exchange; he finds he enjoys the way Julian tastes. He’s spicy, earthy, and the scratch of the dark beard is a novelty he rather enjoys. It emphasizes that maleness just like that hard body, like that obscene human prick pressing to his hip beneath the fabric of those pants. He feels Julian shift, feels the soft, sweaty human skin slick against his own, bare of ridges but certainly not of sensation as his nails scrape the expanse of Julian’s back making him groan into Garak’s mouth. More salivating, he notes, a swallow, a gasp, some hasty murmur that Garak doesn’t expend any energy deciphering. He lets his tongue twine back, letting the kiss become just a touch more Cardassian even as Julian swipes broad strokes over his lips, half smeared across his mouth before ducking down more to his neck, to the ridges over bone, right to that-

“Oh...” drawn in breath nearly makes him hiccup as Julian almost daintily tongues that sensitive indent testing its sensitivity. Garak feels his toes curl in his shoes in response, and he kicks them off one foot, two, wondering if there’s any way he might divest the socks in some similar simian manner.

Cardassians do not usually enjoy the same penchant for digital manipulation as humans and other races where the feet are concerned, but he supposes in this case that the State has shown him some otherworldly favor as he actually manages to make it work. He smiles, quite proud of himself; well, an awkward panting open mouth thing that in his mind is at least a smile. Julian looks, moving back with little regard for the nails that scrape down his back failing to hold fast, a toothy grin in return, as his hands fall to the buckle of his belt.

“I was going to see... which of us could undress faster... but I seem to be at a disadvantage.” Julian stands between his spread legs, Garak only half on the bed. Garak can see Julian’s eyes moving hungrily up and down his body, almost hyper focused as if somehow that augmented gaze could in fact peer through his clothing. He indulges in his own study, imagining the temperature of the room must be quite warm for a human, Julian’s skin wearing that sheen of sweat already brilliantly. It’s hard- no pun intended- not to notice that hardness, that large proof of human male arousal, tenting the front of those pants and Garak debates just how far to indulge Julian.

It’s not without risk of course, but then again in his long and rather storied career, what hasn’t been? _By the State, Elim, you better hope he at least has the sense not to-_ Garak slams that thought down, mind made up, knowing that even without the implant whatever discomfort, whatever pain might arise from meeting Julian on much more human terms might be worth the game.

“It would hardly be fair without a little handicap, dear Julian,” Garak answers, not having to stretch too much to be sure that his own expression mirrors that same level of lust. There is of course that part of him as Julian almost childishly says “go”, that cringes as he allows that needy eversion, that draws back from that gasping breath, the head of his cock just starting to brush the fabric of his undergarments. He swallows a hiss, swallows that Cardassian sound down for a soft moan, the delicate fabric still like a feline’s rough tongue over that sensitive slick flesh, his hips wiggling, lifting as his pants slide off. 

 _Such an obscenity,_ he thinks as he glances the entire length everted, hard, thick, straight up in the air like the peg in a game of quoits that Jadzia insisted on showing him. _Well that’s a damn fine analogy to be having now of all times._ He moves up on the bed, careful to hide any traces of unease as Julian, quickly nude- Guls, how _did_ he get those knotted shoelaces undone already?- is already on the bed, on hands and knees, practically stalking up the length of his prone body like a wild jungle cat. Garak makes sure that any tension in his body, coiled in his belly is redirected, is focused towards that goal towards Julian against him, on him, in him pounding, biting, and he finds himself suddenly breathless at just how vividly his imagination conjures that picture, letting himself be guided by that lusty thought as Julian parts his thighs. Garak sits up, a hand already coming up, almost carried away with the desire to yank his head by that wild man of hair until it draws a growl from him. But he keeps careful, steady, Julian’s chest pressed to his as Garak initiates that human kissing with a slow tilt of his head, deliberate eye contact, a light touch to the nape of Julian’s neck that causes a delicious shiver to reverberate through the both of them.

Julian gasps, Garak meeting his tongue eagerly, meeting his mouth, accustomed now to the wild spit swap, to the heavy panting, moaning, almost devouring back and forth lip smacking. Julian’s body moves closer, thankfully carefully. Garak keeps himself upright, other hand on the bed when he feels Julian take his wrist and hold it tightly. Garak again doesn’t react beyond a slow deliberate flex of his hand to test that blood flow, head turning from one tilt to the other axis, finding that slight flip nice, tongue tasting Julian’s teeth, his palette, feeling Julian’s tongue thick in his mouth battling back hard, hot, and just as hard he finally feels the slide of Julian’s length along his own. The reaction is immediate and it is only from years of training, pain, pleasure, both at the same time, that he is able to keep himself calm. The sensation is intense, even without the rough human grind he’s read about, and his knee raises slowly, but he doesn’t allow that shift of weight which would flip them over. No, he lets that sensation flow out with a squeeze of his thigh to Julian’s hip and he feels more than hears the growl against his mouth.

Julian breaks the kiss panting, chest heaving, “godgodgod” passing across Garak’s cheek to his ear with delightful humid breath. Garak feels the rough of Julian’s bearded cheek against his face, more panting, their bodies closer together, a hand Garak forgot that Julian even had around his waist lifting him up easily. He allows that movement, feeling the swelling flush of his scales, feeling the throb of his cock as the two are forced closer, Julian’s rubbing his more insistently, the slick wet easing that friction to a bearable level. He gasps, he decides that he might reward Julian with a soft whimper for that feat of strength, the sound almost alien to his ears, soft, pitiful, but exactly what he seeks to convey as Julian shifts his own legs until Garak is seated neatly straddling them. _Well this is certainly novel._ He faces Julian, his hips rocking fast short spurts his everted cock terribly desperate to continue that contact as heavenly as it is torturous. And it that second soft hitching high pitched noise that makes Julian move his head, look him in the eyes, and of all things smirk at him as if there’s some secret he’s yet to be let in on. He is aware that Julian has moved his arm behind his back and he only thinks now to test that grip finding it oddly loose.

“You’re too loose,” Julian says, voice as thick with sex as it is amusement. _Ah, but of course he’s calling your bluff, Elim. You should have known better. You should have known there would be more tension from an unexpected movement. You should have known it’s the natural instinct to fight, to test, to be cautious. Ah you poor fool, you might as well... Might as well what? You’re certainly not going to stop. You can still absolutely turn this to your advantage if you play this right._ Play this right? He’s not sure he’s even thinking clearly, Julian giving a soft bounce that makes his eye flutter and nearly gives him another attack of vertigo. Garak also has some intrusive offended secondary thought as he considers that statement in Federation Standard out of context and he almost has half a mind to inform Julian that it was _he_ who was the one one his knees first murder plot or no, and if either of them is _loose_ it is- But there’s another rock, another groan, and he decides that he’s had enough of the silly charade.

“Why don’t you find out, Julian?” he teases back, and there’s another grind, harder, almost too hard that does draw a prolonged hiss.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Julian urges, practically begs and Garak nods, not content to merely be used like a doll.

He has no intention of such a thing even if it _does_ in fact kill him because it is one thing to feign weakness but another entirely to show _real_ vulnerability. Garak squeezes his thighs again, rocking his hips back, losing that awkward bend when he realizes Julian easily has enough strength to keep him from falling backwards. He gives in then at last to that urge, to that hard pull Julian’s hair, tongues twining, Julian a splendidly fast learner. Garak laps at his tongue, lets the two meet in that beautiful dance as he grinds harder, more slick sticky spilled between them, likely his, but that moan from Julian speaks to such equal ardor he’s not sure. What he _is_ sure of is that he can feel the wet pooling between them, he can feel Julian’s hands move down, down the small of his back, tracing the ridges along his spine. That tease makes him arch into Julian, makes him gasp, those guttural throat noises forced out, rubbing aching, more, until he feels Julian’s hands on his ass. He feels a suck on his tongue, Julian, swiping a sweet plea, of  “please... Garak... I want...”

He knows what Julian wants and Guls he wants it too, _badly_. Garak awkwardly wedges a hand between them stroking, feeling both cocks, feeling the fascinating skin of Julian’s slide up and down, Julian’s hips twitching, jerking up as he strokes, squeezes, checks just to make sure-

“God help me if you keep doing that...” That plea is delightful, Julian’s head bowed, forehead nearly touching Garak’s shoulder and he almost continues that tease, his thumb circling the slit, feeling more fluid pearling, sticky, stickier than his own. But that isn’t what he needs. Julian’s hands squeeze hard, kneading, fingers moving much closer to the cleft of his ass as he massages, as he begs again if Garak would please _please_ let him... _Yes... yes now... it’s wet enough..._ He twists light, rotates his palm, making sure that the slick of his own cock transfers to what little of that large thick shaft may have been missed in their heavy rubbing; there isn’t much and he recalls almost irritated some Romulan boor remarking decades ago that Cardassian women must be veritable sandpits if the males come equipped with so much natural lubrication.

Garak pushes that thought almost violently aside, never happier that a man was dead by his design. It’s quirk of biology that he’s quite happy for now and as Julian seems to belatedly think to ask if he needs- Garak shakes his head, bringing that hand back up, taking great pleasure in licking it clean, not caring that his face is a sure study in debauchery. It’s one Julian studies well as Garak lets that hand drop back to guide the large swollen head of Julian’s lovely prick right where he needs it most. He stops, Julian’s tongue bathing his face like a mother cat, but it feels good, those soft lips sucking noisily, crudely, damn beautifully, just as Garak has enough presence of mind to recall the task - _ahem-_ at hand. Julian moves him before he moves his own hips, lifting him, spreading him like some great offering, and he could definitely get used to these useful feats of augment strength. He feels oddly exposed and he doesn’t deign to count the years that it’s been since he’s been taken that way. The reminder of his age isn’t the cold water that he needs right now, especially when Julian is again tonguing that dip of his collar making him tense in a way that’s hardly conducive to their current situation when he feels that tip pressing pushing, and it’s only by sheer will that he exhales and relaxes just enough to-

“Tsss....” that hiss is loud, pained bliss, and Garak wishes the damn implant were working just so he could tweak everything to the perfect level of euphoria to make him come right then. But it’s broken and there are no drugs, no fabricated neural chemicals flooding his brain. No, it’s nothing but Julian entering him slowly, deliberately, seeming to move faster, easier, and he can feel the tremble of Julian’s arms, not from strain but restraint, from that urge that Garak knows all to well to move, to thrust, to bury balls deep and just _fuck_. He knows he ought to be thankful for that consideration, for the control that has likely come from a lifetime of Julian watching his strength, careful so terribly careful. It makes him almost irrationally angry that Julian finds this necessary after any pretenses of his vulnerability have been dropped. He grips Julian’s hair harder, tighter, until he knows that it hurts and he speaks in Cardǎsda knowing that Julian will understand him just the same, whatever he may claim later.

“Do it,” he rasps, another pull, hearing Julian swear at him a blistering epithet back fluently that makes him smile. But he doesn’t need to be told twice and the moment Garak lets go, so too does Julian, those hands turning more rough, opening him up wider, practically driving him down just as his hips push up. 

Garak has a moment of debate as to whether or not he should make some exaggerated cry, but finds the breath rush out with nothing but a gasping swallow like a fish that finds itself unable to breathe the poisonous oxygen above water. He doesn’t think it a flattering sound, but Julian doesn’t seem to object, taking that command as _carte blanche_ to release some of that control. Garak feels him shift, feels himself driven into hard, Julian in complete control of that motion, and Garak nearly lets his head fall back until the vertigo strikes again with a vengeance. He settles for keeping his head bowed, watching the blurry bounce from his view of Julian’s mouth on his chest, lickbitesuck until it seems that all he can do is take hold of Julian’s shoulders and just go along for the ride. He feels his body rocked, fucked, Julian’s stomach rubbing against his cock, that grind making him pant, some other low rasp as Julian is absolutely deep inside him, in the midst of that large cock pushing him open, a finger teasing, daring, is if it might to slip inside and open him up even wider. Garak’s thighs start to shake as tightly as they’ve been gripping Julian’s hips, toes curling, heel unconsciously kicking the small of Julian’s back, not bringing him to heel but instead spurring him to go harder, deeper as if such a thing were possible.

There was a point to this, he thinks for just a fleeting second that is completely forgotten, his body clenching around Julian tighter, that tension in his stomach starting to blossom out and coil tighter. And Garak has the experience of numerous encounters over the years to warn him against whispering a lover’s name knowing that any words could spill out in such a moment, but that, like the rest of this encounter finds caution thrown to the wind as he whispers “Julian...” It is just once in some brief pause, and he feels a much greater halt, another litany of “god god yes” that almost makes him think that is the end of Julian’s stamina. Except of course it isn’t, and even as that slow, that prolonged pull out gives him a chance to move on his own, to press more slickly insistently against Julian towards his own completion. It’s perhaps a selfish thought and not one befitting a generous lover, but Garak’s never claimed to be fair and this is all Julian’s fault anyway and he’s just so Guls damned _close_...

“Ssss.... Hsss....” he lets go of Julian just long enough to move his hand again, not playing not teasing, not needing to do anything beyond press, squeeze, draw that pressure to the breaking point. And it’s right then that he does feel those fingers slip inside him, tease his sensitive hole, as they massage one, two, scissoring him almost impossibly wide until he finds that his mouth has fastening to Julian’s shoulder to bite back a cry that would surely rouse the entire ship to bust the door in even _with_ the noise coming from the engine room. He can’t stop. He wouldn’t want to anyway, feeling that heat spiraling out of control until he feels the spasm of his cock in hand, every muscle in his body locked as he swallows, pants a strangled repeat of Julian’s name, another finger entering him in response, a forth? He doesn’t even know what his body is allowing as he allows the spill to pool until he things he’s nothing left to give.

“Garak...” he hears half swallowed to his throat as his head moves back, leaving large red skin nearly broken indent.

“That... _is_ my name...” he answers automatically, expecting there to be more to that conversation along the lines of witty banter. 

He should have expected that where humans are concerned the conversation seems to die off in these more heated encounters, but he supposes there’s no harm in dreaming and he’s not in any mood to protest. Even so, he’s not entirely prepared for that second slow withdraw, the release of hands, and he almost asks Julian what he thinks he’s doing stopping _now_ of all times, but instead he finds himself almost inexplicably in his back, that bouncy mattress quite soft and rather nice but not exactly what he- _Oh..._

“Oh...” That wasn’t the sound he was expecting to make but he supposes it’s as good as any as he catches sight of Julian on his knees, back between his spread legs looking almost evil in his intention. He feigns a shudder as Julian spreads that thick dribbling fluid down, coating his cock anew. “Oh tell me you’ll have mercy on a poor old tailor, Julian.” Really, he’s almost certain that any moment his body is going to go practically catatonic, penis retracting, that lazy haze taking over, except that by some sorcery- or maybe just that long of a dry spell where being on the receiving end is concerned- he finds himself still keyed up, blood still pumping wildly, and thinks irrationally that Julian might have even slipped him something.

“Not a chance,” Julian informs him another slow sensual stroke of that thick uncut cock. Garak looks up at him, meeting that expression with a challenge.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure I better end it there or else this might be like another 10k words of this so yeah, back to our regular storyline next week :)


	31. The Proud Rebel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jadzia's sad tale is told and all eyes turn to Garak next. What's a lovable lying lizard to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit on the late side, but better late then never. I thought an action chapter would be nice since we're going to start getting into a lot more craziness going down and in later chapters just a little hint to whet your whistle; think Empok Nor ;) There are also going to be way more crazy revelations, plot twists and surprises, so stay tuned. As always thanks for reading and commenting, C&C is always welcome. Also if you want to use any of this world for fun, I'm totally cool with that too.

“Worf and I haven’t spoken in over twenty years,” Jadzia says with unusual reserve as she drinks a warm cup of tea through a wide straw. The four of them sit around the fireplace, the only light in the darkened room. The main room looks haunting between the faint moonlight streaming in the window and the glow from the crackling flames. Garak, on principle decided not to question the venting system or even the wisdom of such a novelty, but Julian had assured him that it only fed into the main engines powering the speed of the ship. Garak listened as he explained the engineering in greater detail, and took his tea with a patient smile, finding it too thin a beverage for his tastes. _“Let it cool down, Garak, I promise you’ll like it.”_ He finds now as he drinks the cooling drink that it’s acquired a thick gel consistency. Gelatin, Julian cheerfully informed him, though he did warn to finish it before it cooled completely lest he have to uncap it and fish the rest out with a spoon. Garak had sat down initially and then with a wince he barely managed to hide, decided that he would best be served standing up after all. Jadzia shot him a knowing look as he took a position behind the back of Julian’s tall wingbacked chair primly drinking his tea as if nothing was amiss. He pointedly ignored Julian’s disgustingly smug countenance in that moment, the light glinting brilliantly illuminating that green eyeshine.

As it stands now, Jadzia sits next to Keiko O’Brien on the large sofa. Garak has noticed since joining the three of them that Keiko appears unusually quiet from what he remembers. _Politeness perhaps? Or something more?_ Garak does not study her too blatantly as he leans on the chair without fear of any undue motion. With the furniture secured, he finds it a pleasantly solid foundation. If he were to pretend, he could almost imagine the large airship being akin to an ancient Cardassian Freighter full of character, the slight vibration, the unsteadiness accompanying the whirr of engine, but he’s never been one to let his imagination get the better of him. And right now it is far better to live in the moment as Jadzia narrates- solely for his benefit he’s sure- the tale of exactly how she came to be an “ex” Starfleet science officer.

“He did not seem particularly interested in conversing when I last saw him,” Garak adds, seeing her mouth curl in a small amusement. Yes, that suits her far better than that maudlin look.

“No, he wasn’t,” she agrees seeming to find some humor in the situation after all. “The first thing he said was...” She sits up straight clearing her throat rather dramatically before dropping the volume to a comical imitation of a stern baritone. “Jadzia. This has gone on long enough. You _will_ accompany me back home as my wife.” Jadzia laughs perhaps louder than any of them but there is a fair gale of laughter that comes together in a rather pleasant chorus that even Garak cannot help but join in on. He sees Keiko, curiously delay, stare at him for what definitely does not seem to be the first time before relaxing her posture.

“He can’t possibly think that after all this time he’s just going to show up like nothing happened. He can’t just ride into town on a horse and expect you to go off into the sunset with him because he tells you too.”

“Klingons are such romantics at heart,” Garak notes, seeing Jadzia’s dancing eyes catch his. He doesn’t know if it’s the lingering euphoria from his earlier... encounter with Julian, but he finds that expression to be strangely kismet, an odd flutter of pleasure passes through him as he holds that look.

“You could’ve heard him out,” Julian counters mildly. “At the very least you didn’t have to make him chase you all the way to the ship.”

“ _Make_ him? _”_

“Point taken.”

“You don’t _make_ Worf do anything,” Keiko agrees.

“Nor would it seem to be the case with our dear Jadzia as well.” Jadzia shakes her head at that looking serious again, a glance down with a sigh.

“He told me back then if I came to Westworld that we were no longer husband and wife. That... that wasn’t an easy decision... but it wasn’t his place to...” She trails off seeming trapped in that nostalgia, frustrated, sitting back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling as she hits the back hard with a fist and an almost Klingon-esque growl accompanied by what Garak suspects is a long string of Klingon epithet.

Keiko puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

“We know, Jadzia. I’m sure Mr. Garak will understand if you stop there. I’m sure that there are _plenty_ of things that _he_ has not shared with _us_ that you don’t need to push yourself.” She doesn’t turn her head, but his sharp sight can see even in that dim lighting a quick flicker of her attention to him, the emphasis surely obvious. _So she knows. Of course she’s an intelligent woman but have you given her any cause on the trip to question what’s been going on? You haven’t had any further contact with the happy Startfleet cadre and she was not present for any of it. Of course there is that saying about a mother’s instinct and it wasn’t an ideal tale but that leaves the question of what she suspects and who she suspects of being part of the fabrication. She cannot know that Jadzia knows. Her attention has been relegated to you and to Julian. But where to proceed from here? It might be better were she to know, but for a civilian the risk could be too great. Or is she a civilian? Jadzia had said she was a botanist but could there be more to it?_ Garak takes another drink, nothing showing on his face as Jadzia puts a frustrated hand over her eyes.

“Me?” he asks with complete innocence, or as Jadzia would say charmingly “like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth”. He’s yet to make use of that saying, much to his chagrin, he hasn’t met anyone outside of himself to whom that particular idiom would be applicable. _Ah, give it time, Elim, you’ve met so many delightfully deceptive individuals thus far, it’s only a matter of time._ “It’s no “Mister”, just Garak. And my life is an open book,” he protests with all the earnest he can muster even as Julian snorts and Jadzia makes a pleasant rumble of laughter as she sits back up. Keiko does not seem to share that amusement, but though she narrows her eyes suspiciously between all of them she doesn’t take that bait.

“I’m fine, I really am. It’s not exactly a secret but...” Jadzia trails off, looking to Julian questioning. Garak imagines it’s to see if he hears any unexpected visitors. He shakes his head before she continues. “Of course. Wouldn’t do to have my credentials being called into question now, would it?” She scoots forward, dressed in a thin white slip that he can just barely make out beneath a rather plush looking white robe, daringly low cut. Garak wonders if that’s part of the carefully sealed array on her belt or some borrowed piece. Either way it seems to fit her well, the short length of both garments suggesting they may have been borrowed from Keiko, but seeing the conservative long pajamas of said Mrs. O’Brien, he’s not so sure.

“A hundred and two years ago my godson was murdered by the Albino,” Jadzia states, and Garak can feel the immediate tension even now as she speaks those words. He calculates quickly, triangulating that with his recall of her previous hosts.

“When you were Curzon?” He asks. She nods at that, mouth tight and she looks to them all as if telling the story to everyone for the first time.

“The four of us, Koloth, Kor, Kang, and I, swore a blood oath to hunt down and kill him no matter what. He was a dangerous pirate, a criminal, and when he evaded capture, he vowed that he would seek revenge on the three of them. And he did.” Garak watches her fists clench around that cup. “He infected their first borns with a genetic virus... And they died... slowly... painfully... Kang’s son was my godson. He was named after me... in my honor... I _swore_ there was no way that I would let him get away with that... and I didn’t.” Her tone is dark, her eyes distant and Garak cannot help but be somewhat rapt in his attention as she continues. 

“Twenty one years ago, they found his base. It was here on Westworld. I was a member of Starfleet then. I was a science officer... Lieutenant Commander. And I had also just gotten married... to Worf- Worf, son of Mogh. That night,” she says with an almost bitter laugh. “That night that they found me. That night we were celebrating...” She looks at Julian with a wistful smile. “Julian was there, so was Miles. We had battled then as man and wife, Julian, had just swung the _Ma’Stakas_. It was brilliant. It was damn beautiful. Worf fought so...” She sighs. “He was unmatched as a warrior. But that’s when I saw them. Three of my oldest and dearest friends. I’d never hoped to see them at my wedding when I invited them, still searching, still looking, but there they were. They found him!” He eyes light up as she leans forward with a quick shift to that bloodlust that makes Garak understand completely just how a Klingon could have fallen so hard for her. “Right there, they bellowed, three brave warriors, that they found the albino! Here on Westworld! They had the location of his hideout and it was time! It was time to fulfill the oath. Kang said it was a formality... that I didn’t have to come, but Kor, _Kor_ knew the feeling in my heart when I heard. He knew how honor demanded no matter how many lifetimes passed that I could never rest until the oath was fulfilled.”

“I take it, Mr. Worf was less than thrilled,” Garak interjects shrewdly. Jadzia’s look grows pained then for a moment, pained, betrayed, but it settles back to anger in a chameleon quick blink.

“He agreed with Kang. He said that I had no business in such an affair. Can you believe that? A Klingon warrior telling me about _my_ honor?! General Martok understood. Sirella didn’t...” She looks on with a wry bitter twist to her mouth at that. “It divided the entire hall... I’ve heard it’s still a debate amongst generations even now. Should the Trill have fulfilled the blood oath made by her former host?” She looks at Julian now, a quick glance up and back down to the center table again. “Benjamin, Julian, Miles... they all told me I’d be crazy to even consider going. Murder? A Starfleet officer committing cold blooded killing? What does Starfleet care about honor though? Diversity, acceptance, they’re nothing but political words to Starfleet. What does the Federation care about my godson?! Nothing! That’s what. Did I go? Of course I went.” She looks at Julian, setting the cup down, taking his hands just at that moment, a lean in, a clasp from them both even as he turns away.

“We never could’ve done it without Julian. Without everything he knew about Westworld, about Dehas where the Albino was hiding, without his mind, without everything you’ve done for me, Julian. You know I’ll never be able to repay you.” Julian, Garak notes shakes his head, discomfort obvious as he sighs.

“Thank me for what, ruining your life?”

“Julian-“

“I know,” he agrees, squeezing her hands tightly. “I know we’ve been over it a million times, you’d be dead, I’d feel even worse but...”

“No buts. No regrets.” She looks up at Garak defiantly, daring him to say anything. “Worf told me if I left that night I was no wife of his. Almost twenty one years to the day I upheld my oath. I killed him. Me. It was my blow that dealt him death and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” She lets go of Julian’s hands looking only at Garak. He isn’t sure why, but as all her playful demeanor drops, the light casts shadows that make him feel vaguely threatened. 

“I can’t go back now. I’ll be court martialed. Guilty, damned, you name it. I chose to stay in the darkness.” She drops that focus back to the table again. “Kang, Koloth, Kor stayed with me. They stayed when Worf didn’t.” That statement almost niggles at him, calling back to mind the three old Klingons, having seen them plenty of times since his first arrival, and in that memory what returns are the whispers as well. _The Klingon’s whore_. _Ah but never to her face to theirs, where any could hear, but whispered in those hushed tones you’ve longed grown accustomed to. Just like the occupation, right Elim? The spoonhead’s whore, the Cardie’s bitch, any number of venomous digs.  Mmm... primitive misogyny at its finest._ He choses to remain silent on that front. Whatever truth of that it’s one of those rare truths that he really believes to be none of his business. In spite of what some might say, he does still possess a rare few of those. “They stayed with me when he didn’t. That’s all anyone needs to know.” Garak nods in agreement taking that in, finding himself wondering then why a man would decide after such a long period of time to suddenly recall the wife he cast out. It seems however that bit of dark mood passes quickly, a shake of her head and another sip of tea, Jadzia urging him to tell his tale.

“C’mon, Garak. We’re all lost souls here, no secrets amongst friends, right?” She winks at him and he cannot help but grin back wondering if the entire intent had been to lure himself into sharing his own sad fall from grace. He decides that it couldn’t hurt to play along, already flipping through innumerable covers that he’s given over the years, piecing together something exciting, daring, with just a lick of truth but Guls, not too much. He catches Julian grumbling that whatever words leave his mouth the truth will be the least of them. He cannot help but preen a bit at that as he lets Julian know that every one of his compliments a few hours ago were utterly heartfelt. Julian chokes in his Tarkalean tea, a coughing expulsion of liquid over the large white shirt that Garak truly does hope won’t stain. _Ah, but stain or no, that’s such a delectable view down the font of that long low neck. Really, Julian, I think if you hold it out just a bit more to shake the fabric I might be able to see more of that tanned chest._ He’s about to offer to help him clean it up back in their quarters, deciding that a little more “protection plan payment” might be in order when fate decides to take a mighty stomp on his rekindled loins.

The ship rocks violently, and Garak tumbles almost into the fire as Julian dives and rolls him out of the way. He expects to see similar falls from the rest, but instead oddly finds them still seated, up and alert. Julian as well is already back to his feet as Garak gets to his knees. He doesn’t even have a chance to open his mouth when Julian tersely grits out, “pirates.” _Pirates? In the sky? For what purpose? Slaves? Latinum? Certainly not dilithium or anything else of real value. Ore?_ He holds the chair rising to his feet, the gondola of the airship far less stable in the aftermath of an attack than the ships he’s been accustomed to traveling on. It’s at that moment that he rights himself that Molly and Nog both rush from either ends of the hall. _Yes, Julian said Nog would pilot day because it was safer but by the State you hardly imagined Elim, that this was the reason._ He can see it must have been close to the shift switch; Molly is already dressed, and he sees two pistols holstered on either side of her hips. Gone is that playful girlish demeanor from earlier, and instead he sees the serious battle ready face of the ship’s captain.

“Number?” She asks Nog quickly.

“Three,” he answered looking anxious. Garak watches her suck in a breath. He doesn’t catch what she breathes out, but he sees Julian already running, far more tense than he would expect. 

“Molly-”

“Guns,” she interrupts him. “You still gun better than anyone at night. Nog.” She looks at him quickly. “Port. Julian, starboard.” Nog is already off back down the hall he’d come from as Julian hugs her tightly.

“I won’t let a damn one of them get away,” he swears kissing the top of her head before running off without a care for who sees his speed. Again, Garak finds that curious but already Molly is looking at Keiko uncertainly.

“Mom... the shields are slaggin’ up.”

“We’ve got it.” Keiko looks at him with a mother’s face that just dares him to argue with her. “I’m certain Garak will be happy to help.”

“Delighted,” he agrees having no idea what he’s even agreeing to.

“I’ll keep an eye on the other passengers,” Jadzia says, just as Watters staggers into the main room sleep rumpled in his Starfleet uniform. Garak turns away before he laughs out loud just as Molly barks for Jadzia to “mind the dirtkissers.” Keiko wastes no time, briskly instructing him to follow her as they scramble. She takes him down the right hall and to a door on the left. 

“We need to get the shields up.” There’s nothing but a small room, and he’s about to ask how they plan on accomplishing that when he sees her open a floor hatch to a small aether lit shaft down a ladder. “I hope you’re not claustrophobic,” she says, and he cannot decide if that’s a poor attempt at a joke or not as he debates his odds of surviving a fall from however high up they are rather than going down there.

“Not at all,” he says amicably as he swallows down the tea sourly pooling at the back of his throat at the thought of that damn tiny space.

“After you, Garak,” is said almost far too sweetly, but he ignores those warning bells screaming, the thought of the entire ship falling out of the sky enough to prompt that motion. He obeys dutifully, wasting no time as that ladder drops ten feet to a room that’s mercifully larger than a closet but not by much. The lights are only enough to illuminate the activators, and he can see it’s nothing but a series of large metal wheels marked presumably for different parts of the shields. He doesn’t touch anything, unsure if there’s supposed to be a certain order, as she joins him, a click into place as the hatch closes, followed oddly by another. _That would be the lock, Elim,_ his mind helpfully supplies and he feels almost dumb wondering why she would be locking it when Keiko is at his side indicating the number two shield.

“We’ll both need to turn clockwise until it stops. The number two shield is the carbon nano fiber chain over the port of the balloon. Pirates usually won’t target that during a raid but accidents happen and we can’t afford to take too many hits to the gas bags.” She’s already beginning the turn and he can see why exactly this is a two person operation as the wheel barely begins to turn with the both of them gripping the spokes. It begins moving faster as they do, and he thinks he can hear a rattle or some other gears turning to bring it to bear.

He isn’t sure how many turns he counts before giving up, his muscles will be aching in the morning with five more to go, however Keiko is already on to the number three as he finishes the job and locks the wheel back down. She doesn’t look at him as she moves the latch holding it, braced to begin the first hard turn. This one seems harder than the last, barely moving with a groan as he throws all his strength to it.

“Now we need to get this one into place for starboard,” Keiko grits out, a far stronger woman than he would have thought, “and _then_ Garak, you can tell me why we’re _really_ going to the West Continent. That won’t open again unless I use the right combination and I’ve got all the time in the world.” As Garak considers the question he also realizes, that like everyone else in Westworld, she’s also far more dangerous as well.


	32. A Thunder of Drums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under attack Garak and Keiko struggle to raise the shields. And Garak struggles to stay cool under pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why I rewrote a whole bunch of this before posting. Masochism maybe? Anyway, some action, some adventure some more mysteries make themselves known. I think for every one thing answered about ten more take its place haha. Anyway, stay tuned for more action coming up and wild times abound. Thank you again everyone for reading and commenting and C&C is always welcome!

Garak is thankful at that moment that he hears the loud clang of three bells. It provides enough distraction that his pause to consider her statement isn't noticed.  _Well, Elim, that certainly answers why she was so insistent on coming with you for the trip. Now as for what she suspects... she must think it something rather dire for such subterfuge. Or perhaps not. After all, not every woman is like Mila. No, but she has never seemed unusually hysterical or overreactive. Not as far as your observation would indicate. And there is something that you're missing in this something that you're-_

"The bell is just a formality for the rest of ship. We already know there are three." Keiko looks intent, listening carefully as if forgetting the somewhat ominous declaration of earlier as she turns that difficult wheel. "Please, don't let the bells distract you. I can listen for both, believe me. I've had enough years of children and distractions to mutitask." She seems slightly out of breath but she doesn't waver in her movements on the wheel. Neither does he, though he is sure to reserve some effort for the remaining two.

Garak recognizes quite easily that she's not going to lose her focus so quickly. He manages a smile that surely appears more like a grimace, but in the low light cast from the thin aether strips along the ceiling he doesn't worry a whole lot about his physical appearance.

"I should have expected a woman of your intelligence would have seen through such a poor ruse," he gives the compliment as easy an absent thought as breathing in the hopes that it might buy him another moment to-

"Why are you going to the West Continent?" she grits out sounding possibly more angry than she intended with the exertion of the turning. One glimpse to her face, however, stomps that hope neatly dead.  _Ah, what fortune, you get to be on the receiving end of that rather charming expression._  Garak is sure if looks could kill, as the idiom goes, he would at the very least have spontaneously burst into flames already. He would not normally assume an easy resort to violence no matter how angry the opponent, but he has learned where traditional parent child relationships are concerned most are unusually quick to go on the offensive.

"Surely you must have deduced as you discovered the ruse itself that there is a necessity to discretion and while I would relish an opportunity for full disclosure I do hope you understand the inherent difficulties in such a position." The number three shield locks into place with that last effort and as Garak looks to the number one and four, he almost hopes she decides to just slit his throat does he doesn't have to repeat such unpleasant muscle strain two more times. Keiko as well, is breathing hard with that exertion but not quite as much as he. Garak decides right then and there at the end of this he's going to need to reenter a phase of serious reconditioning.  _Reconditioning?_ He catches that thought with disgust.  _Really, Elim, at your age you should be starting to wind down, to enjoy the spoils of a well earned position commanding, moving the pieces on the Kotra board to your delight, enjoying the great mental game without a single care for your prowess at calisthenics. Enabran Tain isn't sitting there trying to determine the most efficient way to reshape his girth into a fit fighting machine._

Keiko gives him an assessing look. And in spite of such a stalwart mental case for allowing his form to sink into a blissful middle aged complacence, he finds that a certain self conscious vanity presents itself as he squares his shoulders back.

"We should each be able to pull the one and four," she informs him as she steps to the number four wheel. "They'll be firing at the gondola and these need to hold even while we're pulling them." Keiko takes a deep breath, not allowing her interrogation to interfere with what he is sure is a critical activity. "Don't let go of the wheel." She reminds him of a teacher he had years ago and he recalls Julian mentioning that she once tried her hand at that same endeavor. "The shields are smaller," she informs him pedantically, "but there are more gears and more pulleys. They'll be firing at the-" As if on cue, Garak hears a loud boom and feels the concussive shock rock the very floor beneath them. He doesn't think however, that the gondola has been hit. It doesn't have quite the same feel as the explosion from earlier. Garak considers that as he takes hold of the wheel and begins to turn in earnest, feeling a similar effort required solo as the two center shields had with the two of them.

"The first shot was a warning," Keiko says, voice tight. "They're not going to stop unless we disable their ships or they board."

"Such rousing evening entertainment," Garak remarks as he hears another round of blasts and almost feels his arms ripped out of their sockets as the wheel jerks. But again, there's no massive quake to the ship and Garak sucks in a breath, continuing to turn even as his shoulders and biceps start throbbing with every motion. He pauses when he hears another bombastic fire of what he's determined to be primitive cannon shots from multiple directions, another blast making him hold onto the wheel as the ship jerks again. He has no idea how many turns are left but he hasn't heard the locking click in spite of what seems to be several minutes of moving. He swallows, the immediacy of the assault diverting his attention from the terribly tiny compartment until just now that he allows the walls to come back into focus. Garak's mouth is dry in spite of the tea he drank earlier, and he turns again, and again, getting close to screaming  _why_  hasn't it locked into place yet.

"Whatever you do," he hears Keiko again but closer, right behind him now, the wheel catching again. "Don't let go." Garak knows damn well that he is in the impossible position of letting the entire port shielding drop or likely being stabbed in the back. There's an almost euphoric sensation as his head starts to swim, another firing of rounds, sensing some life or death moment that he's been rather neatly locked into. He can feel a squirming unpleasant sensation between his shoulder blades and he cannot help but feel that's it's deliberate that she continues to stand there, a soft quick step left then right as he turns his head. Garak ceases that futile search, deciding that it's a far better expansion of his energy to continue to raise the shield. The sooner he can complete the task, the sooner he'll have lost that air of vulnerability. Garak had watched her pace; he knows that even with the lock up from the hits he cannot possibly be that far behind.

"Julian can shoot almost anything out of the sky. It comes naturally to him, his reflexes..." she trails off and he wonders briefly where she's going with this new line of questioning. "But you knew that, didn't you?"  _Yes, yes I did. And you do as well. But you seem to want me to admit it._

"Julian and I have had many a discussion," Garak answers tightly, finally breaking through that stuck spot, the wheel giving a last reluctant lurch. He feels it lock into place a new volley of thunder reaching his ears, making his jaw clench. He turns quickly, but not so alarmed, not so fast as to invoke an involuntary response on her part. Garak finds however that she's standing there calmly, and in fact, far from menacing, she's standing legs apart- a solid base- as she grips an overhead bar to keep her balance with the motion of the gondola as another tremor hits the ship.

"The shields are graphene. They'll hold. But Miles always said that he didn't trust the scaffolding that holds them. He said that it would be better to build it out as a permanent structure around the gondola. The gondola is reinforced- the hull can take a lot of hits before there's a breach. He  _promised_  me that." A deep breath reveals an anxiety to that calm that he can see now. "This is dangerous work, Garak. This isn't the Federation. There aren't any laws here. Not in the sky- not even on land unless you're lucky," Keiko adds mostly to herself, and he can see her tension. "I told her if she wanted to fly, if she wanted all this space, this...  _flying_  she'd be better off joining Starfleet." Keiko huffs, looking up at the planks of the ceiling, and Garak's eyes cannot help but follow. His eyes trace the whorls of the wood in the darkness. He can see in his peripheral vision that without his scrutiny she allows her body language to become less guarded, that there's a much more worried cast, another volley, another parry. He's finally figured out that Julian has been aiming at the cannonballs themselves the two forces colliding in mid air.

Garak grabs the bar when he hears it and his shoulder screams as they're both nearly thrown with the impact. He catches the grit of her teeth, the tendons of her neck obvious with that effort.  _But far better than to be thrown into anything else here._ His arms aren't that far above his head. He can see that the cabin wasn't designed for a giant and as that thought passes, so too does another reminder of the small space. Garak is masochistically thankful that the threat of actual death is high enough to trump the imagined walls closing in, though he isn't sure which he would prefer right now.

"I would imagine Starfleet pales in comparison to such dramatic battles of the sky," Garak says, perhaps a touch too glibly but Keiko just shots him a mother's dark disapproving distant look.

"She wanted to feel the wind. She and her brother... they said that space was  _boring_."

"Well, I would be hard pressed to argue that this is anything but invigorating," Garak agrees as the ship takes a sudden lurch and Keiko's expression mirrors his inner most thought that any moment they're going to crash horrifically to the ground.

"Where is..." Garak swallows hard, the reality of the ease with which they might fall out of the sky terribly present. "Where is her brother?" he asks conversationally.

"Why do you want to know that!?" Keiko snaps at him and there's an odd panic that appears outside of their current predicament.  _Curious._  Garak grits his teeth as the tilt seems to even out and he looks for a bar to grip that might be on the wall itself. He doesn't see any and supposes the fewer protrusions they can be thrown into the better.

"Merely making conversation," Garak assures her. "Julian had mentioned Molly had a brother but you know as loquacious as our dear doctor is, I'm afraid he's been quite reticent where your children are concerned. Not a complaint, just an observation," he's quick to add. "We Cardassians are always eager to talk about family as a matter of pride, our connections, you see are an endless source of fascination... And while I could wax poetic about your favorite designers, your husband's every little idiosyncrasy down to yesterday morning's breakfast, in fact, Julian has always been somewhat... evasive where your children are concerned."

"Humans find it suspicious when  _strangers_  ask about their children." He can see her bristle.  _She's lying, Elim. You've yet to meet a single human who hasn't leapt at the chance to converse for hours about their offspring, their accomplishments, their friends, their education, what sports they played in school. Perhaps in the context of strangers on a train it might be an unusual subject to suddenly broach but where clearly adult offspring are concerned-_  Garak's head nearly snaps up as he replays that statement, a bell going off like someone dropped him on his head.  _She said "their children" as if they were his._   _It could be nothing, you know. It could be a figure of speech, some generalization, some grammatical point that you're misinterpreting._ He barely keeps any bodily reaction and is almost thankful when he hears a longer series of bells that he imagines to be some sort of basic code. He thinks quickly. His instinct tells him that his hunch is correct. There are a million things he wants to ask but he knows that to jump on that suspicion now while her guard is up would yield little.

"You have my sincerest apologies," Garak says at last with an awkward duck of his head as he decides a better story is in order for the trip. The truth after all would be such a vulgar thing to just spit out like an unpleasant morsel of dinner. No, he knows better than to insult his host in such a crude manner.  _Especially not when she's gone through all the trouble for this subterfuge. She's Starfleet- or she was- the same as her husband, the same as Julian, the same as Jadzia, the same as the mayor. Of course you should have seen it earlier. Watters wouldn't even think of allowing Jadzia aboard until she gave him her name and rank. Why should the pilot's mother be any different? She must have told him. She must have been able to prove it. By the State, what is going on in Indigo for such a series of coincidences? Is that it, Elim? Could the Kironide be nothing but a curiosity? What if the mystery is Indigo itself?_

Garak thinks at this point it's a moot issue. He won't have his answer until they arrive at the rendezvous point and he confirms with the contacts Pythas is sending.  _And they'll either abandon you in the dirt or restore you to your proper station. But until then, there's nothing left but to play the game and to stay alive._

"It was foolish of me not to tell you the real reason for going west. It is your family that is involved... at least in part... in the transport," he adds shrewdly, paying close attention to the shift in her eyes, to the slightest change in her pupils as he speaks and he catches it as he does. He also sees her eyes narrow, some game inside her own head as she studies him back. It's in that moment that Garak realizes the bells have stopped their intermittent chiming, the firing of the cannons gone.

Keiko lets go of the bar, unable to hide a wince as she rotates her arms. His own shoulders are hardly faring any better. She doesn't move towards the ladder but continues to stand there waiting. Garak waits with her, content to stand there in their strange staring contest seeing her watching him until seeming to come to a decision.

"I know why we're going to the West Continent, Garak," she says at last and he immediately thinks that she's bluffing. What was the point in all of this, after all, if she knew the entire time? But he holds back, not letting his expression change.

"I see..." is all he allows.

"They can't hear us down here. Not even Julian. Miles designed this space that way. When it's locked you can't find the hatch." She lets that information sink in and Garak wonders why she's telling him this, already feeling a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"My husband doesn't trust Cardassians," Keiko informs him suddenly changing the subject. He merely nods in cautious agreement.

"An understandable sentiment given his history."

"I think that's an unfair prejudice. I think it's foolish to judge an entire race based on the actions of a few. But I still don't trust  _you_ , Garak. Not because you're Cardassian but because Julian..." She shakes her head taking a few steps not looking at him before slapping her palm back behind her to the wall. She hesitates until finally looking up at him again. "I don't like this. I think you're up to something. But I also think that Julian is in over his head. And there isn't anyone else I can turn to." "Julian said something to those people upstairs to arrange this," she says, forcing out every word like a curse. "And you don't know what it is... do you?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," he answers noncommittally. He sees Keiko look at the hatch, as if waiting for a sign from the heavens before continuing. He can almost hear her thoughts, clear as a bell,  _God help me if I'm wrong to tell him this_ , screams at him as if she shouted the words at the top of her lungs. He knows he has nothing to do but watch, and wait. Garak doesn't wait long. Her voice is almost wooden, as if she decided to memorize those exact words, soft, monotone, and Garak strains to hear, but when he does, he cannot help the surprise that flashes across his face.

"Prisoner number 50B112165 places himself in the full custody of Captain Watters at the conclusion of this mission." He doesn't even need to ask what Julian could have possibly been thinking when making such an insane agreement. He knows, just as soon as Keiko says it that-

"He has no intention of going with them and they know it. Whatever guns you're bringing, Garak, you better hope that they're bigger than theirs."


	33. A Big Hand for the Little Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak needs to work on his plan, and work on Jadzia in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah it's kinda late and I'm not sure if I should apologize for sacrificing some plot advancement for more uh... doing it... ahem. Anyway, he thought came to me and I couldn't help myself so maybe sorry not sorry? back to Garak/Jadzia with a twist at the end because we can't just leave it there now, can we? Thank you all for reading and commenting and I promise this will keep consistent with plot and not devolve into one long porn with plot thing.

The second attack came three days later as the shore of the West Continent came into view. This time it had been two of them at dawn, rousing Garak from a rather warm cocoon of blankets and Julian. Julian who hadn't let him out of his sight since the first attack. Julian who'd been on him like a madman once the dust settled, once he was assured that Garak was alive. Garak, of course could not have planned it better if the attack were some elaborate machination on his part. Alas, much as he would like to assume the credit for Julian's newfound protective obsession- just as he had reasoned past experience would easily erect it- it was a matter of pure chance which he took complete advantage of.  _Yes, wouldn't do to have another lover die on you so soon now would it? Such a burden, such a thing to bear, my poor Julian, you'd never forgive yourself. I can only imagine the guilt you must feel for suggesting this mode of travel knowing that Molly had detoured a priceless Mithril run cargo still in tow before the drop. Yes, every pirate on Westworld is likely gunning for this ship right now._

Julian hadn't realized it at the time, however he surely must have imagined the girl would drop everything at his request; at least that was the impression that Garak had gotten which only fueled his suspicions. Whatever the cause, fear the most likely, Julian had seemed possessed when he had finally emerged from the hatch, careful to wait for Keiko to rejoin the huddled mass of Starfleet waiting in the main room holding the rails as the ship rocked. At least that was the image Garak had called to mind as he stood there listening to sound of his own breathing, counting backwards from a hundred. That was her game, she informed him. She would spend the remainder of the trip with them, with their cause, until she could find the information that she needed. He was thankful that there'd been precious little use of his eyesight was required. He would be glad to get to bed and remove the patch for the night, already far too long.

Ah, but then there had been Julian as he'd come up, not content to wait, not content to let him get in a word edgewise as a matter of fact. Julian had pressed him hard against the wall, breathing heavily against his neck how terrified he'd been, how surely close to death they'd both come, how sorry he was for this mess, and how he just needed to  _feel_ him. Garak had certainly felt him, had felt his body quivering against his, had felt the sweat, the heat, as Julian ground into him, mouth at his ear, at the ridges of his neck until he was purring in half a trance. He'd allowed Julian's mouth to nip his throat, allowed those hands to undress, to rip, to give pulls painful to his tailor's senses with hardly a care for the door of that small room containing the hatch to the shields. Garak hadn't a care for the door either, considering its potential unlocked state only for a moment before he was snarling, tugging back at Julian's hair, only content to remain docile for so long. He remembers so vividly that feel of Julian's hard lean body grinding against his, the hands heedless for once of their own strength trapping his wrists tightly as he-

"Garak?" He blinks a few times, coming fully back into the present. He realizes as he does that he's been staring at the same page of the Federation History now for far longer than he should have, that reminiscing making his mouth dry. Behind him there's a faint rustle of clothing, Jadzia having declared her intention to slip into something more comfortable than the Starfleet Uniform she'd been wearing the last few days. He couldn't imagine what could possibly be more comfortable than the glorified pajamas that were the Starfleet uniform, but he had a hunch that her statement was some quaint idiom for a different type of wardrobe. Regardless, Garak had nobly taken a seat, back to her as he feigned perusal of that large tome, mind drifting to the events of the last few days. There were just a few details to shore up but he'd hardly had a moment alone to properly think.

He'd shown the Ferengi, Nog, how to play Kotra with an oddly improvised set. He'd learned the ins and outs of the ship thanks to Molly's enthusiastic tour. He'd been sure to properly educate the waspish Commander Farris on the finer points of Cardassian courtship lest she be misinterpreted in future diplomatic encounters; Jadzia had been quite amused by that one. He'd also kept an eye on Mr. Nog's somewhat clandestine paramour, a nagging suspicion about that one that he just couldn't seem to shake. Julian had accused him- whenever he wasn't trying to keep him perpetually in bed- of being overly paranoid, an accusation Garak found offensive in its hypocrisy. Nonetheless, he'd been afforded precious little chance for scheming, and he was beginning to suspect that Julian had intended it to remain that way.

_After all, he refused to discuss the matter of his previous incarceration, his agreement with Watters, anything you asked of him. No, it was nothing but redirecting, but more amorous distraction, and while pleasant, he certainly cannot expect you to fall into his arms as his previous paramours and forget all of your troubles and cares._ Garak snorts at that thought and closes the book, making a note of the page he was on.  _Ah, but speaking falling into someone's arms and forgetting your troubles..._ Garak turns around when he begins to feel rather than see the impatient tap of a foot behind him.

"My, I have been an awfully rude guest, now haven't I?" he asks, giving an appropriately long drag of his eyes up and down her body as she walks towards him barefoot.

The room is warm, and he can tell it's purely for his benefit, her skin already wearing a thin sheen of sweat beginning to glisten on her face. He rather likes the dewy appearance that it gives as he counts those lovely spot down, losing track at a hundred and something or other. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he does not so much "lose" count as he decides that counting it a waste of his newly regained ocular prowess and the freedom from that infernal eyepatch. No, it is a much better use of that attention to watch the curve or her body beneath that white slip that he'd only glimpsed the other night beneath that robe. The robe however is hardly needed in the hot- or what Garak would call comfortable- room and he watches appreciative of the slip and slide of that pearlescent cloth on its own merit. Sensual though it is, he also does not doubt that it is in fact quite comfortable.

"Well, Julian  _has_  been keeping you all to himself these past few days, I guess it's only natural that you're still a bit distracted." her eyes twinkle as she sits on the edge of the bed, knees not quite close enough to meet his as she leans in. From anyone else, it might seem a contrived flirtation, the position leaving a delightful look, a peek down to anyone who would seize it to more smooth, spotted skin. However Garak has learned that her body language is refreshingly free of such ulterior motive now that he's gotten to know her so well, and tempted as he is, his attention remains on her eyes. "I know he wouldn't let you out of his sight so easily," she teases, and he finds a faint shiver through his own thin green cotton pajamas coursing through him. Not nerves, certainly not nerves for being so easily figured out, he tells himself.  _It is only natural that she learn your habits, your mannerisms, the way you think. You've let her in, you've let her see it, her, Julian, you've no one to blame for such vulnerability but yourself, Elim._

But vulnerable as he is for allowing such familiarity, she in turn is no different, and he is counting on that innate sense of trust built up from her end to allow him to see this through now.  _But how much do you tell her, Elim? Do you tell her that you drugged him? That you spent part of the preparation for the trip working up the carefully measured doses of the sedative taking into account Julian's weight, height, metabolism until you were sure you had an effective dose? Ah, but does she then wonder who else you might have taken such pains to incapacitate? And then does she believes your reasons? Your lies? She might at that. She's honest, with little affinity for deception. She is not so foolish to believe all others to be the same but she also believes that she knows you and she will_ _want_ _to believe to maintain that illusion._

Which of course brings him to the present, to a hand placed on her knee as he too leans in conspiratorially and meets her halfway.  _You need to get her, Elim. You've got the doctor, you've got Julian, damn noble Julian who you now know is here to destroy the Kironide so that neither the Federation nor the Union can touch it. But you can't allow that, not when you've come so far, not when your ability to just go_ _home_ _depends on it. How many years were you on Terok Nor? On Bajor? How many decades away only to come home at the end of the Occupation and find yourself barely clinging to your station. No, whatever it takes, whatever you have to do, Lok's agents are getting that Kironide if you have you slit every last one of their-_

"I'm worried about Julian," Garak says, the words coming easily. It isn't hard to feign the proper emotion. After all, it is an entirely honest sentiment drug out of context and beaten back into beautiful submission for his own purposes.

He makes sure he keeps looking at her, using that hand to measure the tension of her body where the rest of her may be false. So far she remains steady. Instead her foot slides forward, the other leg, the right, the side of that soft foot brushes his ankle, lifting up the leg of his pajamas to tease bare skin. Her hands remain on the bed, that look not breaking with his.

"Should  _I_  be worried about Julian?" she asks, that concern naked in her eyes such a stunning display of contradiction to the toes that tease around his ankle, slipping that fabric up his leg until it reaches the end of its circumference. Garak lets his hand slide up a scant few centimeters.

"You should be very worried about Julian, my dear," he agrees, taking a momentary pause, savoring that feel of her foot, the light scratch of a nail carefully rounded and smoothed. He can already start to sense her arousal, her heat, no doubt exacerbated by the temperature, but already that faint desire swirling around his olfactory senses.

"Do you know what Julian is planning to do once we arrive on the continent?" Garak asks, dropping his voice, a strange part of him suddenly doubting his calculations of the sedative as he speaks. He feels the muscle of her thigh tense beneath his fingers, and he lets them stroke, more inward just a touch towards that sensitive artery. Her eyes drop down than a rapid blink up, the quick pull of her lower lip beneath her teeth with a sweet small suck of breath. He feels her foot drop that fabric so that it might trail higher, brushing past his kneecap. Garak's pulse quickens as he watches her mouth and finds that there's a base thought running parallel to his current agenda as he can practically  _taste_  that longing as he recalls the feel of her mouth, hot, wanting around his-

"Julian tells me everything," Jadzia answers back with a soft rush of breath. He is as aroused as he is curious to when such details passed between the two of them.

_Ah, but with Julian's talent for silent movement, it would be far easier for him to slip from your sex induced sleep than the other way around. For all you know that's the entire point of his newly found obsession with fornication._ That is to say that while Garak is perfectly confident in his ability to satisfy a lover his ego is not so strong that he cannot conceive Julian may in fact have an ulterior motive for the past few days' behavior.  _But then again, he couldn't have foreseen my finding my way here before we land. As close as it is, it may never have come to pass if the issue wasn't forced, if this latest attack hadn't pulled that desperate death driven drive to rut like an animal, if Julian hadn't been_ _careless_ _._ But as far as Garak is concerned no matter how it works out in the end, that result is all that matters. He smiles back at Jadzia, letting his expression speak for itself as he continues to caress her thigh, finding her foot feeling blindly until those questing digits begin brushing insistently right near-

"Julian doesn't think I should trust you Garak," she tells him with a small little press of her big toe. He breathes in deeply, slowly, a flick of his tongue to the thick air allowing him to most definitely taste her-

"Julian isn't thinking clearly right now." He moves his hand, pushing the silky slip up higher, having such a strong insistent feeling that she's not wearing any-

"Julian just wants you all to himself." Her foot strokes him, coaxing, just begging him to let go and just feel the tip of his aching-

"Julian has not... expressed that desire to me..." Garak watches the slight drop of her eyelids, the parting of her lips panting as he allows his hips to rock, to push back against that foot with a soft hiss, his hand exploring further, fingers dancing up the inside of her thigh until he can almost touch her-

"That's why I opened the door for you tonight."

_That's why..._   _Ohhh..._ Oh of all the ridiculous nonsense, of all the completely improbable, insane, ridiculous scenarios that he'd envisioned, surely some heated sexual rivalry with him at the center was  _not_  it. He can feel his pulse throb, he can feel with that thought, with the way her mouth hangs slack, dry, lips not even wet as an afterthought between her heavy breaths, he can tell that it's not a bluff. It's not a con even if everything else were somehow lying. Guls, this couldn't be more perfect an opportunity and as the tops of his fingers reveal with slick, hot certainty that she is  _not_  in fact wearing anything under that slip, he decides that whatever the damn outcome he's going to enjoy this to its fullest.

"I need you... to help me... save Julian," Garak gasps, Jadzia's foot moving back, causing an involuntary eversion, just the tip, just that small questing bit seeking, needing, and he sees the strap slip from her right shoulder with an artful little arch just begging him to-

"Show me..." he can see spots trailing teasing down the top, around the fullness of her breast, her hands pulling that slip up past her hips and he can see just how ready she is for- "the plan..." Yes of course, the plan, the plan that will leave the lot of them stranded in the desert to phone home as it were while he dances home with a ship full of Kironide and- And he really ought to be making sure that he has the details in line to be sure she believes him to be completely on her side, on Julian's side for this neat little double cross. It's unconscious, it's automatic, he's rehearsed it enough times, he tells himself that it's really not necessary to think about it so insistently when she takes the takes the lapels of his top and tugs, his own hands back to tugging the drawstrings open, tugging the bottoms, his undergarments down past his hips with an awkward wriggle as he half stands, half falls on top of her.

"Yes..." he agrees eagerly, as the two of them half wriggle crawl shuffle something up the length of the bed. Her thighs parting, knees on his hips, his waist urging him forward, their lips yet to meet, their eyes halfway to completion still locked together just as she decides that the buttons aren't cooperating quickly enough and rips the remaining two. Garak's hands are on her hips without thought, feeling her arch, feeling her push back against him tilting her body with such a beautiful invitation, his cock fully everted, practically flush to his body as angles to just slide right in hard, fast, drilling as deep and marvelously as he possibly can.

"Yes..." Jadzia agrees, hands running over his chest, down his stomach, until she has a hard grip on his flank urging him to move, every sense he possesses nearly making him wild with that desire to-

"Yes Garak," he hears to his left followed by the sound of a chair being slammed to the side of the bed, one Julian Bashir sitting down eyes dark, ominous, as he watches them both. But it's just as he nearly stops, wondering how long Julian was there to witness, that he catches sight of the massive tent of those loose blue pajama bottoms, palmed hard under Julian's skillful hand. He has a feeling his plan has been neatly just blown to bits. He has a feeling he's not about to give a damn. Julian smiles at him wickedly as he speaks, and Garak is sure that were he to look back to Jadzia she'd be doing the same. "...show me."


	34. A Reason to Live A Reason to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the ship descends Garak plays a game of Kotra with Nog, but can't stop thinking about Julian and his secrets, as well as the woman he left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It kills me that I missed a week but between rewriting this with a different scenario each time like 3 times and starting a new job with a new schedule it just didn't happen. I guess since I was like 2 chapters ahead it works out but anyway, I hope this final version works.There's a lot going on and a lot of secrets that will start to be revealed while once again even more begin so hang on for the crazy ride. Thank you all for your support. It's been invaluable in keeping this sucker going. C&C is also always welcome so drop me a line :)

_Garak rarely dreamed of her. But that night he did. He knew he was dreaming a lucid beautiful dream when he turned in the bed expecting to see both Jadzia and Julian but instead found her. He blinked awake, or at least what his subconscious illusory self supposed was a waking state to find her, head raised upon what was a dais of pillows, looking down at him. Her hair was a mess, a tangle fanning out, down from its usual careful updo. She wore an expression that he’d locked away long ago and buried deep down to die. But the easy recall of her phantom presence only showed what a folly that had been. She smiled at him, gentle, devoted, looking almost into his soul as her hand reached out for the side of his face. He’d always imagined it was that expression which gave Dukat some disgusting high to have turned towards him. It was no wonder he favored her so even while pretending she was the bastard offspring of his wife._

_Her hand was soft as it brushed the side of his face and he took her hand quickly in his lest that memory of her touch leave him waking to a murderous state. Dukat would never know how close he came to ruining his old enemy. Garak would sooner carve out his own liver, and he turned her wrist gently, tracing a finger over her palm as she sat up. He knew as his eyes darted to the curtains of a room that he’d only ever been in twice before, as if he hadn’t already realized, that surely he was dreaming as he’d never been in her bed like this. It was always his room, his darkened corner of the world to which she descended with an excited whisper, a smile, a touch to his arm. Her room was light, was still half a child’s fantasy with a few carefully preserved dolls on her shelf that still couldn’t even be half as old as he. Garak had always hated her room._

_Garak swallowed almost afraid to look at her again, desperately wishing that she would disappear. She was gone, after all, or rather it was he who had gone. He didn’t need another reminder dredged from the depths of his subconscious of yet another in a long list of mistakes in his life. But fate, the ancients, whoever, had never been inclined towards kindness nor he to himself._

_“Have you been awake long?” she asked him already twining arms, already sliding around him in the silken nightdress, her face pressed to his neck just, as she used to say, breathing him. There was a time that there was no more wondrous sensation than her warm breath, her soft lips pressed where his neck and shoulder met, and in spite of every rational self preserving part of him telling him to just leave, he stayed. Dreams were meant to be indulged, he’d heard tell from some rogue scavenger years ago. Spoken like a man who would never understand what it meant to serve as he had, and yet it had still made him wonder for just that brief flash in so many decades of eager servitude._

_And that flash of wonder down a rainy, wet street five years ago had blossomed upon meeting her to a long waking fog of “what ifs” that led to nothing but-_

_“How many times must I tell you, my dear, that I don’t sleep.” He spoke, thinking that he should still have more control over his actions, unless it were the will of his mind to leave him a helpless spectator to play out the same moments until he thought he might go mad. Garak knew just as he breathed that there was no more masochistic mind to be found than his. And as he remembered the feel of her body turning in his, close to him, he remembered as well her scent, the feel of her hair as it slipped through his fingers, the way that her toes would curl under her kneeling, her habit of half climbing on him until he thought he might be wearing her as a second skin. Childish, that’s what it was. Yes, Elim Garak and his beautiful child pride, Dukat had said scornfully, hatefully raising that glass in his memory. A toast- a human custom that had seemed so wildly out of place until Garak had watched her innocently raising the glass to her lips._

_There was a tightness in his throat at that recall, still feeling her there, still feeling her breathe and he stupidly dared for just a moment to-_

_“I felt him move, Elim. Just a little, but I knew he was there. I’m sure it was when I felt you next to me.” Poison, whispered in his ear that made him hover between shoving away the demon shade of his memory and crushing it so close that it broke apart into a million unmendable pieces._

_“Perhaps he’s already trying to kill me,” he’d answered glibly, that wonder in his voice as if he were truly there, for the first time hearing those words. He could swear that he was shaking but she didn’t seem to notice. She wouldn’t notice. She was nothing but a holoprojection of his mind playing out the same miserable programming over and over again. He thought he if killed her now it wouldn’t stop the next words being spoken from a broken android head rolling around on the carpet._

_“Well then he’ll have to be strong like you, won’t he?”_

_“He will be,” Garak answered, that automation of his body, his mouth, needles under his skin._ _“You will trust me, and I will betray you”_ _were the words that echoed in his head every time that he lied to her. and so he kept on lying._

 

“What are you doing?” Garak never would have thought that his attention would be diverted from such a plaguing nightmare relived in his head over and over again but somehow Nog manages to do just that with a mind boggling move of his piece. It’s a retreat, a fall back just when Garak thought he might actually have a chance at making this an interesting match. No, he amends that thought. It has been a _very_ interesting match indeed, just not for the reasons he’d initially thought. He’d proposed the game as a means to get a better feel for Nog’s head, and he’s always found people to be far less attentive being interrogated over a friendly game. He had hoped after the first day’s instruction that Nog might prove, with his clear excess of intelligence and cunning, to be a challenging opponent, but so far that hasn’t exactly been the case.

“Regrouping.” Nog’s reply is terse and Garak can see him concentrating hard on the silver bottle cap neatly bent in half. Royal Crown is the brand in enough abundance discarded in some galley area that Julian had found along with his own gold Seagram’s. They worked oddly well in a pinch, Julian also able to scare up something called chalk and a a black board from his room. 

“But you’re losing.” Garak almost shakes his head at the move, finding it almost perfectly reflective of everything about to occur.

“That’s why I have to protect my assets.” _Yes, regrouping, protecting the assets, saving that which should not be saved, trusting that which should not be trusted._ _Like that woman Collins. You shouldn’t trust her, Ferengi. Your ears might hear everything but your eyes are blind if you can’t see the looks she still casts at Watters. Not romantic no, that seems saved for you as you suggest but that worship, that devotion to his command is something you’ve clearly blinded yourself to._

_Yes, you know better than anyone Elim, how poor a security that seduction is._ He almost shakes his head, almost laughs when he considers that folly of youth, of the young to believe that a tussle between the sheets, that some mutually shared pleasure, some sweet words will eclipse the character of a man, or a woman. Really, Nog is as blind to his ally as he is the Kotra. But then again, so had Garak nearly allowed himself to be equally blinded.

“This isn’t a financial transaction. Protecting your “assets” is what got you into trouble in the first place. You have to go on the offensive. You have to attack.” One always must be ready to attack, anyone, at any moment. Betray anyone at any moment, no matter the price. Garak watches, face grim as Nog goes to make a move but then stops.

“Point of clarification,” he says suddenly, looking not at Garak but at the bent bottle cap between his fingers: a Gul. Garak looks at him curiously. “Am I allowed to sacrifice my own pieces?” 

The question is a curious one, one he wouldn’t ever have expected coming from a Ferengi. He considers the question, several game masters having had a go at that very debate over the centuries. Garak has always himself sided with Lanark’s treatise on real war and its’ role in Kotra. It was a theorem based on the idea that one must achieve victory by any means necessary and therefore rules of war were suggestions at best and any feasible moves ought to be allowed, doubly so for those not implicitly addressed in the rules. And beyond that, Garak is curious to see where the affirmative answer to that question leads. He keeps the smile on his face and takes a long sip of tea.

“Of course. It’s only a game, after all,” Garak answers easily, his attention straying another moment when Julian comes into view from the other side of the sofa, face like a storm cloud marking their final descent and landing. Yes, nothing but a game...

 

_“I know you’re going to betray us.” Julian had spoken the words some ten count after Jadzia entered the bathroom and the sound of running water met his ears. Garak had watched him, had looked at the lean sweaty body that shadowed over him, half hard, sticky, hair plastered to his face, still wearing a darkened flush. He had considered a move, a divesting of damp sheets, of that unpleasant spot, or rather spots which clung to his back. He considered a lot of things but remained, waiting for Jadzia to return and perhaps advise him on where they might come by a fresh set before he move. He licked his lips absently, an odd though, an odd terribly human thought to roll over and half lick half kiss the mess coating Julian’s cock just to taste him. His tongue already tasted the air, a triple sex mixture that lingered thick in the air. Still, it seemed not to be enough._

_Garak lazily watched as Julian stood there, the bed sinking down with his weight. Garak puts his arms behind his head with a nonchalant affectation he’s seen many a time in Rom’s._

_“Why Doctor Bashir, after everything that we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?” He sighed as Julian half crawled over him possessively. It was a rather nice feeling even as tired and stiff as he was. “You’ve no idea how pleased I am to hear that,” he said cheerfully, allowing Julian to pull his wrists above his head and hold them. It was a dangerous position given Julian’s strength, but Garak never truly let his guard down and between the two naked males, his money, as the Ferengi would say, would be on the one whose genitals were inverted and safe. Julian met his smile with a much darker one of his own, straddling him, bowing his head until their faces nearly touched._

_“You didn’t drug me just so you could shag Jadzia. You didn’t drug me... you didn’t play that hand just to plot with her.” The words are whispered nearly to his mouth and Garak could feel the cold sticky on Julian’s stomach hit his own until it warmed between them, dirty, erotic, Julian’s breath cinnamon red hots that he kept in a small satchel near the bed. “You wanted to know what it would take... how much time you would have... Isn’t that right, Mr. Garak?” He felt Julian shift, felt a resettle down on his hips, a squirm, Julian’s hands getting tighter around his wrists in a small warning._ _Of course you knew from the start that I was contacting someone and I’m sure you guessed it was the Order. You don’t believe me when I tell you they’re going to help us destroy the Kironide to keep it out of Federation hands. You’re wise to doubt, Julian, you’re wise not to believe, but you’re not wise to allow me to get so close to you._

_“No Mister,” Garak protested with a careful twist of his wrists, flexing his hands, “just Garak.”_

_“Are you going to give me that plain simple nonsense? Do you really think I’m that stupid?”_

_“I think you’re strong enough, I think that you’re clever enough, my dear, that I shouldn’t be a threat to you. That an aging tailor shouldn’t make you resort to such violence...” Garak found that his voice was thick, that Julian’s breaths were getting heavier with that proximity, that Julian was, the State bless him starting to get harder. Garak doubted he was in any position to mirror such a feat so soon, but then again he didn’t necessarily have to be._

_“I haven’t begun to show you violence,” Julian whispered softly, dipping his head, voice trembling as the words were spoken to Garak’s cheek, down to his neck sensitive, hot, and he really wanted to taste that cinnamon on his tongue._

_“How many of them are coming, Garak?” Garak’s response was a turn of his hips, a small arch of his body beneath Julian’s not to struggle, no, not at all._

_“Coming?” he repeated breathlessly, feeling the tension above him, feeling that grip tighten half in anger but certainly also in-_

_“Don’t play with me, Garak.”_

_“I thought you enjoyed it when I played with you, Julian.” Another twist, another arch, a small push of his hips and Julian raised up on his knees, likely to relieve that pressure but instead it allowed Garak to slip his right leg out._

_“Don’t you dare...” Half begging, half threatening, my, Garak never should have underestimated the draw of sex for a man like Julian Bashir. He squirmed, feeling Julian’s knee move almost out of instinct, not content to straddle him, but instead moving to kneel between Garak legs. Garak not only allowed it but invited it, spreading his legs, hearing a small pop of one knee as he did. Guls, getting old was a bitch, as he’d heard slip from Miles O’Brien’s mouth a few times while renovating his room._

_“What shouldn’t I dare, Julian?” he dared to ask as Julian pressed again him, as his prick swelled between their bodies, slipping between his legs, over the still sensitive slit making him hiss in hypersensitive pleasure. “I shouldn’t dare to play with you? Such a selfish request when you clearly enjoy playing with me, coupling with me, or should I use that vulgar Federation vernacular to say that you clearly love fucking me, my dear?”_

_“Shuttup, Garak.” Julian gripped harder, almost dangerous, almost growling hard, heavy prick slipping down lower he was almost terrified at what he might push in such a heated moment but Garak didn’t stop there._

_“You don’t distrust me enough not to- I’m afraid there’s no polite euphemism that immediately springs to mind- bury your prick balls deep in my ass every night.”_

_“Garak...” Julian let go of his wrists, the blood rushing back as those strong hands gripped his shoulders, holding them hard to the mattress. Garak allowed that as well pushing, teasing, squeezing Julian’s hips with his thighs, not trusting Julian’s resolve, but rather his own pain tolerance should it prove necessary._

_“Even now, Julian, even now as you accuse me of treason, of endangering us all, of betraying us all to my people, you can’t stop thinking about how you’ll feel inside this treacherous Cardassian’s body, can you?”_

_“I’ll kill you if I have to,” Julian swore before taking his mouth roughly, mashing the next words out messily so that they were almost impossible to decipher. “If I need to protect my...” trailed off to some fumble as Julian rutted against him, almost slamming his head to the wooden board above in frustration, hardly daring to go further. Garak silently applauded his restraint even as he goaded him further._

_“Do it...” voice pitched lower, pleading, already relaxing his body, breathing heavier, not needing much acting to make Julian groan. “Give it to me...” It was so easy, it was almost pitifully easy._ _He’ll never forgive himself if you allow him him to take you so roughly...when this is over..._ _But when all this was over there would be no him and Julian. No him and Jadzia. None of them. And that guilt would only work to his advantage. “Please, Julian...”_ _Please give it to me. Your secrets... all of them... anything I can use against you I will. Never doubt that. Never doubt that I won’t do anything to go home again. Even if it means I have to-_

_“No...”_

_“I beg you pardon?”_ _Even if I have to use your-_

_“I’m not playing your game Garak.” Julian let go of his shoulders and Garak looked in his eyes, dark, violent, beautifully passionate, some moment of brilliance clicking as Julian’s words played back at him. And of course then, it seemed to obvious that next dark little secret of Doctor Julian Bashir was-_

 

Garak blinks that away and makes a study of the board again, following Nog’s move carefully as he loses the piece leaving a paltry opening that otherwise makes no sense. Garak can only assume that it was intentional, but he also is aware that Nog would know how obvious it appears. His hand hovers, not committing, eyes scanning the array, the diminished pieces screaming to him that there must be something in the puzzle that he’s missing as Julian steals his attention with what Garak swears is an almost seductive walk by, long fingers trailing over the wood carved sofa back, eyes meeting his. But it isn’t sex that meets his gaze when the two of them look at each other, but perhaps a promise of death as well. Garak wonders if there isn’t something misfiring in his brain to find that so alluring as he refuses to take Nog’s bait and repositions for a final assault. Nog smiles at him when he does, and as the pieces fall into place, he realizes his error in expecting a Ferengi to always act like a Ferengi.

“The sixty second rule of acquisition. The riskier the road, the greater the profit.” He considers those words as there’s a roll of the dice, and a wide grin that splits Nog’s face with a turnaround towards victory. But Garak doesn’t consider that when Julian stops, eyes boring into his like Archon Makbar on a particularly bad day. 

“Good morning Julian, I’m afraid this game is going a bit longer than I’d anticipated but I’d be quite curious to see you play the winner.” He meets that stare evenly as Julian stops. 

“We have a problem.” He looks as if he hardly expects an answer and as he slowly, stalks around the table as if to take a seat between to two of them, his eyes still never leave Garak’s. He stays standing instead. “I just spoke with Molly. She told me that Yoshi failed to make the rendezvous.” Julian’s voice drops quiet, and the tremor that lances through as he speaks only confirms Garak’s suspicion in the worst possible way. “Yoshi _never_ misses a rendezvous, Garak. He _never_ misses a rendezvous.”

“I’m sure that-“

“We’re turning around.” Julian says as if there is no consideration for any other possibility and while such a statement might be expected from Keiko weighing the possible peril of her son against the fate of the galaxy, it shouldn’t have come from Julian. But it did. And as Julian’s face turned far more pale, deaf to Nog’s incredulous protest, it only confirmed exactly what he’d suspected from the moment that he met the girl jumping some twenty feet to the ground that day. And that fact is that by whatever means it may have occurred, Molly O’Brien and Juriyoshi O’Brien are Julian Bashir’s children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'm spoiling anything when I say in regards to the last line, that this isn't even remotely a "Julian banged Keiko and O'Brien's not the father" type deal no no, It's something way crazier than that. Having said that a note about Yoshi's name. I know in the series his name is Kirayoshi because of Kira's role in his birth and her friendship with Miles. Given the timeline and events, that never occurred and that friendship doesn't exist yet so it wouldn't have made sense for that to be his name. Still the same character, and it will be revealed as well and doesn't have anything to do with mpreg (if anyone was curious), so stay tuned!


	35. And God Said to Cain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoshi's been kidnapped and Julian's not a happy camper. But is there more to it than that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loving this new job. I can get a lot of writing done at work so thus you have a happy on time weekly update! Not having to rush it also lets me flesh out the chapter better- I think. I'm excited about some of the developments and a few other surprises I get to throw in. Hope everyone caught the Empok Nor foreshadowing cause it's coming. Also, things are not always as they seem, so stay tuned for more intrigue and the like. Thanks to everyone who continues to read and support me, it really means a lot. As always, C&C is always welcome too!

Garak's initial thought it to point out every single thing that is wrong with that suggestion. Perhaps starting with the impracticality of “turning around” when they’ve already landed and then following up with the logistical nightmare that would be a world wide man hunt for a young man who still very well likely might be tardy for whatever myriad of reasons that youth have for such irresponsible actions. Julian's agitation, however, seems to him to go beyond the mere rational parental worry for the vague absence of offspring to something far more nefarious. And assuming his assumption is correct- which they normally are- it's beginning to paint a picture that makes a lot more sense in bringing together events that he was both present and not present to bear witness to. Starting with the matter of Keiko's little revelation in the shielding room that night they were under attack.

_Julian has a prisoner number not with Starfleet, at least not in any designation that I'm familiar with. That's a Section 31, I'm sure of it. Likely special, but there's the matter of why. Ah, but knowing Federation laws concerning cloning, genetic engineering, all sorts of useful things they're missing out on, it would have to do with his status as an augment. But official record makes no mention of any arrest, merely a resignation._ And Garak is highly familiar with just how unofficial, official resignations can be. _But then you come back to the why of it, don't you? Imagine a certain doctor some twenty or so years ago disappearing seemingly from the entire universe right at the same time these two would have been born- no, the same time as the boy. And he and O'Brien's wife hardly seem to be tiptoeing around each other in the manner of two involved in a clandestine affair..._

"Doctor Bashir, I'm sure he will turn up!" Nog's frantic jump up from the table indicates the Ferengi is still not an expert at dealing with such unexpected outbursts. Garak can hardly blame him though, one look at Julian's face would surely make a less seasoned operative seize with a chill, but it is in fact the intensity of that look which reveals the last of what he needs to know. _They're augments,_ he realizes just as Julian looks about to lift Nog clear into the air for even suggesting any other course of action other than his proposed insanity. Of course that still leaves Garak with all the things he would _like_ to know but he's been patient thus far, and as poor as Julian and his cohorts seem to be at hiding secrets he's sure it won't be long before he understands all of the "why's". _Likely some genetic anomaly that could only be remedied via some in vitro alteration but that's a riddle for another day, Elim. What's important now is keeping on track and not losing sight of the-_

"Julian!" The exclamation makes Garak turn from where it seemed Julian really _was_ about to advance on Nog as he protested any irrational deviation from their plan. He sees Molly running through that same hall nearly crashing into the lot of them. There's a tear in the knee of her long pants, the other scuffed, a healthy layer of dirt covering the rest where he'd thought they were clean before. That doesn't make sense with the stairs still raised and the interior doors still locked except... _There's no possible way unless..._ Unless she made use of that rope left and stored by Jadzia which would be a perfectly viable if slightly impractical feat even for a non augment. _Or is it so impractical? In a rush one in good physical condition could descend and ascend from the rope faster than the mechanism that operates the stairs could possibly unfurl that monstrosity._ Still, that seems irrelevant in the rush that follows as Molly, uncharacteristically rattled holds Julian's hands speaking with a quickness that would give even a Pygorian a headache.

Federation Standard tends to be spoken slowly. Garak has always rather appreciated that fact, though it occurs to him now as the chatter rapid fires past his ears that the laconic pace to which he has grown accustomed has left him somewhat unsuited to easily process the rush that Molly half shouts in Julian's face. He's just about to let her know, as he catches from one of every four words, that there is no more evidence of foul play other than the mere fact that her brother isn't here. He blinks a few times, trying to make sense of that jumble feeling something akin to relief when in comes the start of what should soon be a steady procession from the opposite hall, likely in response to the commotion. Garak stands, taking a last look at the makeshift Kotra board deciding that if somehow this doesn't end completely horribly he really must finish the game. He makes a mental inventory of their positions just in case Nog or anyone else decides that a few modifications might make the game more exciting.

"Julian? Molly?!" The exclamation comes first from Keiko, and he's thankful that he decided to move to the opposite side of the room lest he stand in the way of _that_ collision. "What's going on?" Keiko, hair pulled back into a long braid swinging down her back stops at them both, confusion not quite yet blossoming to worry.

"Yoshi!" both Julian and molly exclaim at the same time, both stopping, Molly whirling to face Keiko almost frantic.

"Yoshi never showed at the point and he's usually not late so I just checked. You know I was gonna give him a piece of my mind give him what for right but I didn't see him. I check the rocks, like I looked quick as I could- not too quick I swear!- and I saw it! I saw the Piranha there! He was gone, mom! Gone! like that story Julian used to tell us about the men in the desert and that ghost but I saw his helmet and there was blood and there were pieces of his coat and-"

"We need to go _now_." Julian cuts in not looking much calmer as he puts a protective hand on Molly's shoulder. His expression is grim, but Garak can see from the tightness around his eyes that he's tense. His hand shakes with a faint tremor and he pulls it back, holding his wrist anxiously, looking to Garak for a brief second as if he already suspects that Garak knows something that he shouldn't. "And by 'we', I mean you and me, Garak." Garak instinctively bristles at that command as if Julian should order him about like one of Tain's hounds. He keeps that reaction carefully in check as he faces Julian back steadily, a smile pasted on his face. _Certainly, I'd love nothing better than to traipse through an endless expanse of desert in search of your bastard son and a band of wily marauders whilst our mission and any chance of my going home is blown completely to pot. Now, why hadn't I thought of that?_ In that brief pause, however, Garak notices thatKeiko looks away for a moment just as Molly launches a furious protest. That makes him immediately suspicious.

"Julian..." Keiko's voice is subdued with that first interjection of his name. Molly is already checking two guns holstered at her sides, looking about to storm back the way she came and launch clear off the rail if she has to.

"Are you mad!? Do you really think I'm going to let you throw yourself right into the hands of the people who took your brother?"

"Not listening," she fires back sounding terribly young to Garak's ears just as Jadzia enters.

"What's going on?" she asks just as Molly turns to rush back out to the deck. Julian grabs Molly wrist with a rather parental sounding, "the bloody hell you are."

"You're just in time for the show," Garak informs her as he watches, waiting for some invariable sophomoric declaration that she doesn't need to listen. Much to his surprise, she stops, looking up at Julian, looking from his face back down to her wrist, as if realizing something, and he barely hears her whisper to him, "it's them, isn't it?"

"Well that was anticlimactic," Garak murmurs as Jadzia looks at both him and Nog.

"We might want to step out on this one,” she says with unusual sharpness.

"And miss the excitement?" Garak exclaims, aghast. Really, She may not know that he knows, likely what's going on, but to deny him the opportunity to learn more. Such a cruel woman...

"Garak..." He moves past her, content to watch as Molly continues, Keiko, seeming to replay something back as she talks.

"I knew there was something screwy about those attacks. You don't go like that unless you got good cargo in your sights. And we dropped before we left, nothing doing, any raider worth his salt woulda known that. Yoshi was making a run to meet with some girl or some guy or some game but he got my message and none of them said anything about cargo just..."

"Just what?" Julian lets go of her and their faces are a mirror of the other even though her eyes are deep brown like Keiko's and not his hazel.

"Just that we were meeting you," she says face the embodiment of guilt, her eyes wide, a child who just realized that she'd forgot to poke holes in the little jar for the butterflies. "Julian I... I didn't..." Julian frowns at her as her hands come up over her mouth. "I... I didn't know I didn't think that they would..." _Yes, it's all your fault, isn't it? That's what you're thinking, for surely if you'd exercised caution, if you hadn't been so careless, if you'd heeded what surely must have been a lifetime's worth of warning about those who would do you harm. Ah what a precious little fool. Now let us pause for some more sentimental nonsense, shall we?_ Garak watches as Julian halts that- as far as he's concerned perfectly deserved- bit of self recrimination, hugging her, some nonsense cooed against her hair as if she's not a grown woman.  _Yes, tell her it's not her fault. Tell her it's fine and everything is sunshine and rainbows with the world. Tell her the Prophets will forgive her and that they'll certainly punish the evil Cardassians for their wicked deeds._

Garak nearly starts when he realizes that he's bitten the inside of his cheek and in that moment his eyes avert, that lifelong training to observe, to watch, hatefully disrupted. He feel hot, angry, and he forces his fists the clench and unclench, forces himself to look out the window behind them both, to look at the expanse of dessert, the blue sky, anything else really. _That might have been you once, Elim, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Isn't that just exactly what you'd wanted? What you dreamed of? A child who'd seek you out for comfort. Who’d look to you to write all the wrongs of the world and even when finding you painfully mortal would somehow still believe you able to move mountains. Such a novel thing, that there might ever be someone who would look to you in pain, who would look to stop tears, to stop such emotional wounds. But you know that for what it really is don't you? Sentimental nonsense. A liability that will get you killed. You'd probably die for her too, wouldn't you Julian? You'd give your life, the life of a man who surely must have far more value to the universe as a doctor brilliant beyond measure than one alien child uselessly bound to one backwards planet._

"Molly," Keiko interrupts them and Garak had almost forgotten that she was even there. But regardless, he's thankful for the distraction, not particularly enjoying the turn of his thoughts. Molly looks at her and Garak's opinion goes up in his estimation when he sees only the barest hint of a tear in those eyes. He supposes she gets that from her mother. "What do you mean there was blood?" The question that follows is a surprising one coming from Keiko, spoken with an oddly equal amount of guilt lacing her tone. Garak thinks that it is a curious thing to ask. From a logical standpoint- though he concedes that he's had poor models for traditional parent/child relationships- he would imagine that her question would not be quite so pointed, that her focus on the that specific detail would not be so sharp. He has not had the privilege of her intimate acquaintance to say for certain but he has always been wise to trust his suspicions. Garak pays close attention to her, the thoughts that flash across her face as her eyes turn inward blare at him as if they were shouted through the entire room _"there shouldn't have been blood..."_

Garak sees Jadzia, out of the corner of his eye unsuccessful in removing the curious Nog from the entire affair. But it hardly seems worth it as the rest of the room quickly fills in. There are several thoughts that converge upon him at once, almost too quickly to process as Collins comes next into view followed by Watters and Farris. The latter two are slow, methodical, and he immediately suspects having heard that commotion that they know something. Another piece of the puzzle quickly falls into place in his mind's image. Their gait is far too slow and unhurried, Watters seeming not only calm, but almost... triumphant? Garak watches as Keiko immediately turns to face him. He watches as Julian follows that turn like a wolf tracking prey, and Garak's eyes go wide when he moves quickly- almost too quickly, just barely stopping himself- to confront Watters. Though they stand at the same height, Julian in that moment commands a rather impressive aura even with his slight frame.

"Where is my..." He doesn't so much trail off as he stops abruptly and Garak sees Molly right at his side, a hand on his arm, in warning. _Yes, we wouldn't want Julian to make such a critical slip with the enemy now, would we? But something tells me that the cat is already out of the bag as you humans would say. Keiko had warned you, didn't she, Elim? Protect Julian, That's what she'd said. She said there were others with them. Perhaps Section 31 has been operating a much more effective campaign than I'd given them credit for. of course send the two least skilled in subterfuge where it makes sense, make use of the talents you have, any good agent would know that..._

"Where is Yoshi?" Julian asks looking at him for just a split second as if he almost bore witness to something he should not be privy to. _Oh my poor Julian, it's far too late for you to be concerning yourself with that now._ Again, more curious, is not Watters' steady return gaze as he makes no denial, but Keiko's cautious hanging back.

"He's safe, Doctor Bashir, but don't you think your reaction is a bit much for the son of a former colleague?" Watters tone is goading and Garak almost wishes that he could shout right into Julian's fool head not to play into such an obvious bait.

"You know damn well that..." Julian takes a deep breath. "You know he's my godson. If you and Sloan and the others have the eyes he once claimed, then you don't need these games. I gave you my word that once this was over you'd have your damn Kironide and me as well." His voice is lower, again, Garak thinks that he is woefully underestimating Cardassian hearing. _My, my, my, you were planing quite the little double cross, weren’t you?_

"Yes," Watters sneers back at him. "And we all know that Doctor Julian Bashir is a man of his word. We all know how highly you and your kind regard federation values." Watters is in his face, Julian is not backing down, and Garak is curious as to whether or not they'll come to blows.

"Tell me, _doctor_ ," Watters sneers in such a impassioned and angry manner it's no wonder they surreptitiously avoided them the entire trip. "Where was your vaunted nobility and sanctimony when you lied your way into Starfleet? Where was that morality, that integrity when you and former Chief Engineer Miles O'Brien caused that accident on Outpost 23 that almost took out half the Alpha quadrant? Or better yet, _doctor_ Bashir, where was that human decency when you were altering the O'Brien's children with your own genetic material so that you could create another race of super soldiers?!"

"How _dare_ you-"

"How dare _he?!_ " Karrin Farris stands beside Watters looking ready to throw herself between the two of them, and it reminds Garak of some random tidbit of animal behavior Jadzia had once explained to him. "Watch yourself, Doctor Bashir, or have you forgotten that you're a nothing but a criminal here by the mercy of the Federation. You should be grateful for the fact that Captain Watters has even agreed to any of this."

     _Yes, the female wolf will come between her mate and an attack, cower as if afraid to protect his throat should the other attack._ They certainly resembles a posturing pack of dogs. Garak suddenly wishes he had a spot of that lovely tea to sip as he watches Molly step up, hand hovering above the hilt of the pistol holstered on her left. Julian raises an arm in front of her so that she goes no further to crossing that line.

"Is this what Section 31 has lowered itself to then?" he snarls back. "Kidnapping? Extortion? You _dare_ lecture _me_ about Federation ideals? I know how Section 31 operates, I know how _Sloan_ operates. And if you think you know everything... if you think that you know _anything_ about my life or what I've done beyond those files let me set the record straight. Because you don't know a damn thing." Garak imagines that Watters would not be standing there so calmly clad Starfleet pretty boy in the face of that rather charming look were there not more to the situation.

“He's right of course.” Keiko comes between the two at that exact moment, looking ahead at the floor. Given his suspicions, he's not entirely surprised by that. Nor is Jadzia or even Collins for that matter, though it would seem that Nog has not paid enough attention between piloting to be anything other than totally lost. Garak catches him half hissing some protest to Jadzia. _I can only imagine the poor Ferengi about to see any chance of destroying the Kironide about to go up in a grand conflagration right here and now. Ah, but your worry only betrays your inexperience. The game had only started, and from here is where it becomes far more than the protection of assets, but the conquest of the opponent's Legate, the capture of the council members, the espionage and dare I hope for the torture._  Garak catches himself in that odd idle daydream, if anything thankful for the distraction from his uncharacteristic parental ennui.

"You would do well to be still and to observe," Garak says low enough that he's sure only Nog and possibly Julian or Molly will hear if listening. "I believe I told you that at the start of our game, didn't I?"

"Stop. Julian. Molly." Keiko swallows, and he can see how much it pains her. _Protect him. You have to protect Julian._ That thought, that recollection makes such an unpleasant gnawing in the pit of his stomach it makes his breakfast roil uncomfortably as it tries to finish digesting. "Captain Watters is right." Her voice is soft but firm, steely resolve and he can only imagine what it must have cost her to make such a decision. _And Starfleet makes it so easy, doesn't it? Just sell them your family, your life, your soul and you know they won't betray you. Yes, you can trust them, those sainted officers with their vaunted ideals and disgusting truths. They wield justice like a weapon, they do. And you believed it better to surrender your son than to let him fall to them by less willing means. Exactly as they wanted isn’t it? To have Julian at their mercy- for surely the white whale is a much greater prize- they would promise anything, even the release of his two equally abominable progeny._

"Mom?" Molly looks at her first incredulously as Watters steps back, wise enough not to smirk, eyes carrying that expression even where the mouth does not. “Mom, where’s Yoshi?” 

“Keiko...” The weight of Julian’s voice is such that its density could pull the very air from the room. “Keiko please tell me that-“

“He’s fine,” she insists again only a faint waver of her voice as she crosses back to join Watters. “I trust the Federation,” she says to Watters far too calmly and Garak almost wants to laugh at how easily that fool laps it up.

“Mom, you didn’t! Mom, you can’t-“

“Molly...” Julian says, a look passing between him and Keiko as she steps behind Watters stiffly. “It’s fine. You’re insurance policy, right?” he practically spits at Watters. “To ensure my compliance? So help me if you even _dare_ try to take him-“

“Julian!” Molly crosses in front of him with an angry shove back. “There’s no way, no _way_ you’re going with them! They’re not gonna let him go you said they’d _never_ let us go you said-“

“I said to Miles that I’d protect you.” Julian cuts in tone leaving no room for argument. “ _That’s_ the most important thing that I said,” he finishes with a softer tone. “Go on, Captain, you’ve ensured your damn compliance.” His eyes dart to Garak and of course, it now falls to him to secure the lie. _Now, what story have you fed these delightful officers to show them that you’ll have my acquiescence?_ He almost visibly cringes at the notion that he’s meant to be some middle aged mark, some lonely exile enamored with the Gul’s damn handsome frontier doctor, but he supposes if that’s the role he’s meant to play while Julian schemes then so be it. _It wouldn’t be the worst indignity you’ve suffered thus far, now would it? Just don’t forget, my dear, that at the end of the day, my mission remains unchanged, and you know that it isn’t just Starfleet that awaits us but the order._

“But Julian...”

“Lower the gate, Molly,” Julian says looking towards that hatch and then back to Garak. “We’ve got to get Captain Watters his Kironide.” 

Garak looks back at him with a completely adoring smile. 

“Whatever you say, dear Julian.” _And as the humans say, may God have mercy on you when we arrive._


	36. Stage to Thunder Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group plans to set out at last, but surprises await amidst suspicious plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fast approaching some wild times and more action and in this chapter a few surprises abound. I'm quite thankful to be able to devote more time to this instead of a Sunday night rush job as well. Thank you everyone for reading and for all your support, I couldn't have done it without you. As always C&C is always welcome and I'm also open to a suggestion or two as well.

Garak is not sure that he's ever seen so much barren open space in his life; once, in a trip to the south on Cardassia Prime he'd chanced upon a similar topography but even then, it was a wasteland still surrounded at the borders by lush rainforest . He looks out across the arid landscape, the bright sun beating down on their small caravan as Molly and Nog crowd around the map, each holding an end of it softly conferring with each other. There is something about their entire conversation that is peculiar, though he cannot quite place his finger on it. Perhaps it is because Keiko has joined them with a soft series of quickly spoken whispers in a language that is certainly _not_ Federation Standard. If he's correct in his assumption, it’s likely that Earth dialect spoken in the one of the geographic regions of the Far East. He's almost surprised that neither Watters nor Farris has seen fit to comment, but the captain turned Section 31 operative seems to be preoccupied with his own meeting, having called not just Farris, but Collins to his side as well.

 _And from the way Miss Collins is directing those anxious looks to her oblivious paramour, it would seem that your suspicions of yet another double cross are close to the truth than you'd like to believe._ From what he can discern, Julian has his own agenda that at least seems to run parallel to Nog's desire to destroy the Kironide. Whatever he's agreed to with Section 31, and whatever lurks in his past that's prompted some of this rather exciting behavior, Garak has not entirely discerned, but he can be sure that he'll have to worry about them both in addition to the overeager young officers. That suits him just fine. As soon as they reach the exact location he can send up the final sign so that his contacts will know when to bridge the final gap of their pursuit. _And then comes the fun of stalling long enough for their arrival. Which may prove more difficult than you'd originally estimated considering-_

"You know, I don't believe for a second that you've any intention of so easily dismissing your... investors.” Julian stands next to him sneaking a suspicious sideways glance as they wait for Jadzia to finish applying sunscreen to her face. She'd dashed back into the cabin at Molly's suggestion, informing them glibly that a Trill with a sunburn was not a pretty sight. He didn’t doubt her on that count- as hard as it is to fathom anything diminishing her aesthetic appeal- but he has far more worries at hand. Still, worries aside, he cannot help but drink in the sight of Julian's tanned skin rather nicely on display with that half unbuttoned shirt as he pulls the canteen from his pack. Garak watches the long lusty drink, figuring that such an obvious stare would do nothing but add to Julian's concocted ruse of their intimate involvement, at least concocted as to the degree and the intensity.

"You do have a way of making a man envious of just about any object you hold in your hand, my dear," Garak observes mildly, disappointed that he's not successful in making Julian spill any of that water over himself. The thin white cotton would have clung so nicely; he supposes he'll just have to wait and allow the sun to do its job instead. Molly had informed them by her calculations that it could be a good hour walk to the main caves. Garak had wondered why they'd landed so far off but a look from Jadzia- oddly- had stayed his tongue on that question. In fact, there are a few questions he might have still as he watches the stairs being pulled. First, he'd have thought that Molly would have been the one to raise them being that it's her ship, but she's still engaged in rapid fire conversation with Keiko, the two of them tracing lines with their fingers over the map. Second would be Keiko’s seeming complicity in the kidnapping of her own son, parallel to her demand of him that he watch Julian. Which means there has to be more than just her ploy to spy on Watters-

"You're not distracting me, Garak," Julian informs him putting away the canteen. Garak smiles at him.

"A pity, since you've done a rather thorough job of distracting _me_." Julian scowls as he slings the small bag back over his shoulder. "But that's the game, isn't it?" He affects a deliberate leer for the benefit of any who may be watching and leans in closely. "You'll just have to trust me that when the time comes, I'll contact my... associates and let them know that there won't be a deal. It seems the supply has been destroyed. And would they be so kind as to lend a trifling amount of support to my... sponsor... forgive me, I don't believe we properly discussed the specific designation of our relationship."

"I trust you about as far as I can throw you," Julian mutters, deliberately not looking at him, though Garak is pleased to note there's a distinct tension when he does.

"I can only assume that your statement is a rhetorical one, lest I remind you, my dear that I'm sure a man of your capabilities could throw me quite far." Garak maintains a neutral expression as Julian turns back to face him bristling with irritation that's quite palpable and in spite of the trip ahead of them, Garak cannot help but find that baiting a pleasant precursor to things to come later. _Things to come later? Guls, listen to yourself. Later you're going to be riding that miserable contraption back to the LaGrange Point and bidding this place farewell. You'll be lucky to save both yourself and him and you know better than to meddle in affairs that don't concern you._ Ah, but he has always found that unwelcome meddling to be the spice of life as it were. Especially when said meddling leads to such a pleasant sight as Julian's eyes a rolling storm cloud of green just like a massive violent Westworld tornado.

"I think I've already shown you all the capability you need to see."

"Please, Julian, there are children present." Garak practically beams that smirk at him telepathically behind that calm face, and he laughs inside when Julian twitches, turning to look at Molly before quickly looking back at him.

"That," he says crisply, "is none of your concern."

"I must say," Garak observes just as he thinks to himself he may have kept more friends were it not for that "impertinent tongue" as many have said, "for the beginning of a nefarious army of augments you're not lacking for aesthetic. If her brother has a half of her beauty-”

"Garak...” Yes, Julian is certainly growling at him darkly, having taken that bait quite nicely. Garak is pleased that he's lost none of his touch in keeping him off balance.

"My apologies, an egregious character flaw, I'm afraid." _Actually_ , it was Gul Dukat who'd once accused him of having a penchant for seducing children, if Garak recalls upon walking in on him and Ziyal in... Mmm perhaps it’s better not to think of such things now. A laughable accusation coming from a man with his background, but Garak supposes hypocrisy, much like death and deceit was one of those traits which knew no class or creed.

He's not sure what Julian's retort would have been to that. Jadzia takes that moment to appear quite dramatically off the side of the ship's gondola, drawing Julian's attention. He would find the overly large sunglasses and wide brimmed hat laughable except that would be quite rude, and Garak is nothing if no a man of impeccable manners. He bows slightly as she approaches them gaily, and he imagines the boots which she borrowed from Keiko likely have a nasty surprise or two hidden in store should one get too close.

"Well then," she asks brightly, blithely ignoring the tension emanating from all of the little factions gathered around. "Are we ready to go?" Garak kisses her hand and Julian rolls his eyes with such a long suffering air about him that Garak cannot help but preen at that reaction. Jadzia laughs.

"I am always, your devoted servant," he declares grandly, ignoring Julian's snort.

"Yes, Garak is a lot of things, isn't he?" Julian looks about to say something else, but Molly clears her throat and steps forward calling for everyone's attention.

"Well, I guess this isn't just some cargo run," she begins giving a pointed look towards Captain Watters. Garak also notes that she spares just a bit of that for Julian as well. He smiles back as she looks at him with quite a bit more suspicion than before. "But we're gonna do this and then we're done, right?" Watters nods.

"Provided that Doctor Bashir holds up his end of the agreement." Molly and Keiko exchange a quick look that Garak catches.

"I've already told you-“ Julian beings tersely.

"We're going to take the straightest path then," Molly declares looking almost uncertain as she motions for them to gather around, holding up the map. "We're on this rock plateau here." She points to a large gray spot and Garak can see, oddly enough that according to the scale some ten miles further west is a river and possibly a waterfall. _It would seem that this entire ground of stone acts as a barrier then... But a barrier for what?_

"The rocks continue along this crescent here..." She traces a line that goes south and then curves north toward a series of caves, which he assumes is their final destination. "But that would add more time to the trip and we don't want that." She punctuates that statement with a meaningful look to Julian in particular. Garak sees Nog nearly lift off, mouth open wide, when a quick turn of Molly's head and a measured look makes him snap his mouth shut. "We need to start out across the sand," she says and there are come strange alarm bells in Garak's head that are resounding rather nicely right about now. Nog's anxiety coupled with Julian's tight lipped nod are all the confirmation he needs that something is terribly amiss. Molly turns back to Watters again with a long breath. "I don't see the people you were expecting." _People? Surely she cannot mean the same people who are holding the younger O'Brien scion captive._ Garak isn't sure how he missed that little detail but he sees a shake of a head from Farris.

"Captain Watters instructed them not to land until they were certain it was clear." Farris' tone makes it obvious they were expecting an ambush of some sorts. Garak is quite pleased that his plan was just a touch more sophisticated. _They'll wait for the signal. The traffic in the air near Port Town was enough of a bustle that I couldn't place anything out of sorts when we passed. The attacks stopped at Port Town too, didn't they? Yes, surely they'd confirmed then by some means that their target was not present. So they switched tactics. Or was it the same party? Keiko alluded to their being a far greater presence than I might suspect but could that be merely a smokescreen? One of the more effective tactics of the Resistance was to falsely inflate their number when raiding. One could never be certain if there were two attackers, ten, or even twenty at the best of times._

 _Think, Elim, how many would it take to truly subdue one young man? He's an augment but he's not a Vulcan. You didn't see the ship that attacked but it could be hired with only one person even. Who knows what Section 31 would have allotted for expenses to secure this Kironide or even Julian for that matter. This man, Sloan, that Julian spoke of is no fool, he could not possibly allow Julian to escape..._ Garak turns that over for a moment as he considers Julian and even as he observes a group of three Starfleet officers approaching. There is a young man at the front, dark skinned, tall, with close cropped hair who catches Nog’s eyes immediately. He doesn’t appear to know a smile if he tripped over one, and behind him follows another man, slight shorter but broader of build with blonde hair, looking around impudently. There’s third man as well, who also makes a show of looking anywhere but Nog, instead looking curiously to Julian before looking back to Watters with admiration that he scarcely tries to hide.

“Auren... _Riley_ ,” he hears Nog gasp out like a curse, and again he sees Collins flinch, a slight turn of her head. But even that telling scene is not what fully captures his attention. No, Julian's reaction as Watters and Farris approach the three is what makes him almost crack a nasty smile.

Julian's face is one of calculating, of grim determination, and he can see that look mirrored on Jadzia's as well. _Ah, and there it is, Elim, that is the face they surely made before those others wet with a swift end. I have to admit my dear, your murder face is terribly alluring. But whatever it is you're planning I'm sure it will be spectacular._ Spectacular and especially advantageous to his aim, for the less people to oppose him, the better. _And that is where my advantage lies. It is one thing to kill in defense of your life, of your family's, but it is another to kill one that you've grown close to for an abstract, a moral and ethical debate, no matter how noble the cause. And it is that hesitation that I'm counting on._ He, of course, has no intention of killing Julian or any of the others unless it becomes absolutely necessary but he has now decided after his little experiment on the ship that he has measured the proper dosage of the sedative to rend Julian unconscious for as long as he needs.

 _They'll have to have planned for accommodating the cargo, but if not then it can't be helped that we'll have to steal the Godokoro. Mmm, steal is such an ugly word, perhaps borrow. The ship can be left in Indigo, it's the least that could be done after what will likely be a long trip back for them..._ He wonders absently as he makes a study of those conferring with Watters, and arguing with Nog, exactly who it is that will be sent to meet him. He also isn't so delusional as the think that all will be magically forgiven with just one grand gesture, particularly if it's nothing more than efficient Garak efficiently doing his job as he always had. In that circumstance, he's already carefully working on the lie, on the cover which should allow him to remain here hidden, protected, if perhaps slightly less trusted, but he hasn't fully won Julian's trust anyway so he can continue from one minor setback if need be.

 _But first, you'll have to be careful with your signals. Anyone should know, come but proceed with caution. That should be the right message to send and lacking the necessary components it should be able to be improvised but..._ But there's the fact that Julian hasn't been particularly inclined to let Garak out of his sight and he can only hope for a distraction long enough to allow him to place the series of markers. He doesn't need many and he doesn't need much time. It would also be to his benefit if Julian were pulled away from a distraction not of Garak's devising lest his guard remain up. _Or does he need a distraction after all?_ Garak watches as Nog continues to argue with the three, two of whom Garak has realized are two that were supposed to be dead. He nearly snorts at that. Really, how terribly amateurish to assume death without a body, and even then, Garak has always been of the mind that one should never assume an old foe to be fully dead. _No, you keep your eyes open for both the dead until you yourself meet that final end._ And knowing Tain, likely not even then.

It has also not escaped his notice in this time that Julian has been discreetly moving his left hand at his side even as he watches the Starfleet Officers. He sees Jadzia and Molly then return similar gestures, even as a frown creases Keiko's face. She walks over to join that contingent, saying nothing else of the exchange, instead stepping between Nog and some young man Garak has heard called Shepard.

"We shouldn't be fighting each other. Please. Are you forgetting who the real enemy is?"

"The real enemy is power unchecked," Nog answers hotly, sounding almost like a Bajoran, in Garak's opinion.

"And you'd let that power go to the Dominion, wouldn't you, Nog?" Farris looks bound and determined to repeat what Garak can see is an ongoing argument and likely the start of this entire debacle.

"Hey!" Molly snaps her fingers, drawing all of their attention. Garak uses that split second to drop the pebbles on the ground trusting that the small white stones on the dark rock will contrast enough to be seen. And if not then someone will need to go back for retraining because certainly- "As I was saying," she continues, that show of the map interrupting his thoughts. "The most direct way... the best way to reach the caves is to head straight through this stretch here. it's desert and it gets hot but if we're quick we'll reach shade before the sun gets to it's highest."

"I thought you people didn't cross the dessert by land," the one Garak heard called Auren says unexpectedly. All eyes turn to him, except for Garak's who remain on Molly. She's more easily read than Julian, her hand tightened around the page, a quick swallow, an obvious flash of panic fleets across her face.

"We don't... cross by land?" she repeats almost painfully.

 _She wants us all to cross that way._ He realizes as she licks her lips looking down for a moment. _It must play an important part but the question is do you assist her or assist him?_ He's rather clear on the goals of both factions, both at odds with his own but the numbers, the planning, the connection if nothing else favors allowing whatever she plans to come to fruition. Julian and Jadzia's anxious looks to them suggest whatever the result it's likely not to be pretty and he trusts his chances for more with them. So be it then.

"Yeah, the worms or whatever. They were talking about it in town that come out of the ground."

"The worms that... come out of the ground?" She repeats it again, and one might assume it's with the tone of one who was disbelieving of some primitive mysticism and not what he can clearly see is a panicked attempt to buy time. He supposes that if he's going to act it better be now.

"Yes, the worms!" He exclaims suddenly, passionately. "I'd heard tell of them on upon my arrival, I had not thought to make the connection until just now but you've jogged my memory, friend." He affects a perfectly wide eyed expression, not missing Julian's small quirk of amusement as his performance. "They'd warned me, they said those who travel west surely lose their lives to the monsters beneath the surface. A Ferengi at the gate told me, swore it on his mother's life that any who dares cross the dessert to the caves meets with an untimely end. He said that all the riches on Westworld that inhabit those caves, are nothing but foolish myth meant to lure the avaricious to their certain doom. Fifty feet long, able to bring down even the fastest land ship, they've swallowed houses into their gaping maws." He gesticulates wildly, Julian laughing and shaking his head, Jadzia hiding the same behind her hand at his performance.

"A Ferengi told you?" Watters asks with a skeptical look and Garak had gambled hard on the demographic spread of Port Town. Port cities mean profit after all, and he can see from the blanched expression on Auren’s face that it was a successful one.

"You too?" Garak asks in mock disbelief. There's a look that meets him, Auren seeming not to be sure if Garak is to be believed but Watters clearly lacks the patience for such subtlety. He sees Molly catch on easily, laughing, perhaps a bit too boisterously, but there's something to be said for effort.

"Haha, they got you both, didn't they? Oh boy oh boy..." Garak really hopes that Molly never decides to try her hand at the theater as Jadzia had explained it. _But then again, she would be a natural at Cardassian drama. She has a flair for the overstated emotion and animation that the epic holonovels demand._ "You guys just fell for the oldest con here... Hah... you know those Ferengi believe there's latinum everywhere on the planet."

"There _is_  latinum west of Indigo," Nog corrects pedantically, mercifully cutting into Molly's awkward overacting. "But they have not found any in the Thrandian caverns. I've looked for it myself," he adds making the performance far more believable. "But you will not convince some of them. Moogie says that greed can blind a man to the real profit." He nods at that, again the sentiment so alien coming from a Ferengi that Garak wonders if Leeta didn't drop the boy on his lobes when raising him. "Now the jungles of Nyissa have-"

"Enough," Watters holds up a hand, posturing, gesturing to the holster at his side, a freshly acquired Westworld firearm that Garak is almost certain he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with as the saying goes. "We're not here to argue about Ferengi tall tales, we're here to complete a mission. Commander, you have my assurance that our company is more than capable of handling any monsters in the dessert if there even are any." He directs a look at Garak, who makes sure to look affronted in turn that anyone would ever doubt him.

"Alright then, let's go. The sooner we get there the sooner you get your Kironide and the sooner we get my brother. That's the agreement, right?"

"Of course," Watters agrees shooting a meaningful look to Julian that's hard to miss. Of course he expects that secondary part of the exchange as well that they've all been trying to ignore. Molly folds the map back up and exchanges a quick look with Julian. Keiko still appears uneasy as she puts the map in her pack and it makes Garak somewhat uneasy as well and he mulls over that new information. _An entire civilization does not avoid half a landmass because of superstition, not in this day and age and not where there's profit involved for Ferengi. Guls, not even where there's valor to be had by Klingons. You thought we were traveling by airship because of the expediency, Elim, but you never thought to ask any further questions, you never thought to second guess as you passed over that entire expanse as to the whys. Sloppy, terribly sloppy, it’s a wonder Tain sent you out here to die._

But he dutifully follows behind, boots sinking into the soft sand even as every warning bell sounds in his head. _Danger. You know it's coming. The only question now, is will you be ready for it?_


	37. The Hills Run Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trap is sprung. But will anyone make it out alive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late but it's so much easier to polish it when it's finished than scramble to write it all now. This week hopefully won't disappoint as there's a lot of action crammed in. Also a cameo (with a few slight alterations) by a beloved B movie monster we all know and love. Here's a hint, Kevin Bacon starred). I really do want to improve my action writing since I think it's a bit lacking but the more I do it the better it'll get. Thanks to everyone reading and coming back each week, you guys help motivate me! C&C of course is always welcome.

When the attack comes, Garak wonders if anyone is actually surprised by it. He'd felt the faint tremor beneath his feet well in advance for the last several minutes. It was difficult to pretend that he didn't notice it; it went against his every instinct to be party so such obvious and amateurish subterfuge. Surely those for whom the trap was set were not meant to be made aware of their impending fate, but even so, it confounded him how anyone could be so completely oblivious to their surroundings. And given any lack of obvious suspicion, Julian, along with Molly and Jadzia had played it straight. Nog was also a much better actor than Garak had given him credit for. He could tell that sensitive Ferengi hearing was aware of some nightmare sound that was completely beyond him. He tried not to pay it any mind as they continued their trek through sand to slightly more hard packed clay and dirt. But while it was a blessed relief to have more solid footing beneath him, it was then that he more acutely felt the rumble and paused, debating whether or not now would be a good time to shake the sand out of his boots.

Julian had put a hand on his arm discreetly, not looking at him but rather ahead to the open sky with a deep almost anxious breath. Garak had to strain to hear just a bit, his translation abilities far weaker with softer sounds, but the words were not spoken in Standard, but his own language.

"Don't stop, stay alert, You won't have much time." Garak had nearly stumbled as Julian had spoken to him, nerves entirely on edge. He watched as Watters walked nearly beside Molly, Farris at his right, the remaining three taking up the lead. He could see Nog make a few false starts as his steps grew slightly erratic, doubtless, Garak imagined finding the effort of not instinctively protecting his lover difficult to overcome. _Fancy that, such a strange Ferengi, indeed._ _But speaking of instinct..._ He'd looked down at that thought, seeing Julian's hand still tight on his arm as if it might migrate down to his wrist and he felt warmed by that notion, cursing such sentimentality even as he did.

_For Gul's sake Elim, don't let yourself become overly attached to him. Use this to your advantage. If anything, whatever is coming is clearly enough of a threat to warrant such a reaction, you could use this to take care of every problem you have right about now._ Of course, his intelligence on the issue had been shamefully lacking. Between the recovery of his eye at the time and the migraines, he hadn't thought to further research the finer points of the trip, content to miserably lay in bed and let Julian make the arrangements. He'd also assumed that air travel was the fastest, the most expedient but he realized that error as the tremors grew to a level that could no longer be written off even by the humans in the lead, and now all he could do was adapt and survive.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Julian had whispered with one last squeeze to his arm before letting go. There was a pause at that declaration, the look of faint disbelief on Julian's face clearly indicating that he hadn't meant to say those words out loud. He had Garak's sympathies; Garak above anyone else certainly knew the burden of loyalties and self preservation coming together in a miserable contradiction.

"What was that?" Shepard had asked first, reaching for a phaser that he surely expected to find. Of course, Garak mused, even if he was still in possession of such a thing on world, if he'd arrived at the same time as Watters, the odds of it still working were pathetically slim. Molly had stopped as well, shooting a nervous look to Keiko, laughing a short, uneasy bark even as she took a step back.

"Noise?" Her voice cracked, that affront to deception obvious, but by then it was already too late. Garak checked the firearm holstered behind his back even as he watched Jadzia remove the hat and pull from underneath it a series of what appeared to be metal tubes connected by a cord linking each piece. What he witnessed then, was truly a masterpiece, watching her hands deftly turn and twist the tubes, connecting, fastening them into a crude weapon of some sort, something called a crossbow if he remembered her review of various Westworld weaponry.

_That hardly bodes well,_ he thought as the rumble beneath the ground grew to earthquake like intensity. The last thing he had a chance to catch sight of was Jadzia pulling a slender pointed projectile from inside her boot. Which of course leads back to present and the look of horror crossing many a Starfleet face when the ground cracks and a beast the likes of which he's never seen before bursts forth in a spray of dirt and sand in between the entire group. It separates them- Nog and Starfleet on one side and the rest of them on the other. _Ah, that would be the worm..._ Squinting behind the creature he can see the faint furrow of upturned ground, the trail before it split the surface. He takes in the size of it with a tight smile. It's easily a good ten meters long judging by the raised dirt still covering its body and its jaw, open wide in a rather unfortunate sounding scream could easily swallow any one of them whole. It's tan, nearly the color of the soil and sand itself, a mottled skin that he has a sinking feeling is even harder than it looks covered with thick protrusions, likely for pushing it through the soft ground.

Immediately there’s a spray of gunfire; he wouldn't be surprised if Watters unloaded the entire chamber of his weapon already, and much to Garak's surprise, even the heavy bullets- perhaps even jacketed- do not seem to effectively pierce that hide. He makes a note of the fact that Molly has not unholstered her own guns but has instead settled for calmly, carefully stalking around the beast instead, shouting something harsh, hissed to Keiko. _And that would explain the crossbow as well but as for where she intends to shoot it... But surely this thing has to have a more effective means of catching prey than..._ "Julian?" Garak just now notices as he instinctively steps back that Julian hasn't moved. As of a matter of fact Julian seems unable to move, sweating, panting, hands up over his ears as those shrieks intensify. Nog as well is frozen by that piercing wail. _Their hearing then. But then again, you know better than anyone that even the most advantageous ability can be turned against a person in an instant._ To his surprise, Molly does not seem to be similarly affected and it leaves Garak absolutely fascinated to see that she doesn't posses completely identical attributes to her sire.

That also is another mark against Watters' assertion that Julian's in vitro tampering was part of some nefarious plot, but that is a thought for another day. The creature is thrashing wildly, almost angrily hurtling its girth towards them and Julian seems content to stand there with his eyes shut. Garak grimaces, knowing that Julian is a touch heavier than one would think, nonetheless, he tackles him out of the way rather impressed with just how far he was able to throw the both of them to the ground. He expects the beast to swing in turn, but he realizes it doesn't seem to possess any eyes, and in fact seems content to drop to the ground with its mouth open. He's about to scream at the idiots firing at its clearly armored sides to perhaps aim for the delicate looking pink sacks bared in its open maw but amidst the shouts and surprising chaos that quickly descends, he doesn't have an opportunity. As he rolls over, brushing himself off, a brief moment of silence letting Julian blink to what is hopefully a quick recovery, he pulls out his gun to do just that. _Really, if this group of fumbling children is the best that Section 31 can produce, a group of reckless youth screaming in terror at the first sign of true conflict, one really must wonder if the stories of their vaunted efficacy and ruthlessness are but exaggerations._

Garak aims quickly, not quite sure that he's out of the range of whatever attack it might throw their way, when he sees the true reason for the beast flopping so unceremoniously on the ground. _Of course the armored body protecting the rest but then... oh... that may pose a problem._ His eyes go wide as it rolls faster than he'd have thought possible, Watters clearing the way, five officers diving in different directions when that mouth splits wider to reveal at least half a dozen snakes shooting out with uncanny quickness. Those snakes are _not_ eyeless, their eyes narrow things that track their movements, each of them attacking furiously. They’re relentless. Garak fires off a round just in time to keep the jaws of one from attaching to his leg as another already is taking its place.

"Julian!" He shouts, seeing those eyes blinking at him almost dumbly, but he cannot afford to take the time to spare concern for Julian's lingering disorientation. _Well, Elim, it appears as if you're going to be protecting him after all. I do hope there wasn’t anything breakable in that sack of his._

Garak takes just a moment as that second snake head lashes out, even as the other writhes in pain. It nearly knocks him over. He barely hits it out of the way with his forearm. It's strong, even with a hole blown through it, whatever prehensile control they create possesses is strong is strong and unpredictable. He can see that the man Auren has been tagged by one, jaws sinking into his back. Garak has a clear shot where the rest do not, embattled as they are, but he does not immediately fire. _Instinct is all well and good, but far better not to react without thought but_ _instead to train one's thoughts to process so quickly that every action is initiated seemingly without them._ And in this case, that initial question is whether or not to rescue one whose demise would be advantageous, not only to his plans but his allies as well. One glimpse to Molly, her eyes darting over as she quickly rummages through Keiko's pack pretending not to notice, biting her lip uneasily, is all the confirmation that he needs. _So that was the plan after all then._

The pieces fall together quickly, and Garak instead works on getting Julian back to his feet, highly trained focus able to tune out the shriek of what is clearly a man being pulled backwards towards the maw of the beast amidst a flurry of gunfire. _Of course they cannot shoot at the mouth now,_ he realizes grimly _or they risk hitting him._ It's a particularly ugly sound but he's heard worse- far far worse- in his lifetime. He doesn't tune out the conversation, acutely aware that he may miss vital information during that exchange, though it would seem from the sound, one enterprising young woman has decided to try and pull him back. Garak takes fast aim in that moment, sure to shoot a snake coming towards him and Julian, and incidentally piercing through one about to hit that little fool as well. He supposes that it cannot be helped and if anything that little display will belay some of the suspicion on the entire scenario.

Garak isn't sure exactly what the next move is, but he can see Jadzia make her way to both Molly and Keiko. She takes that moment to fire, the bolt piercing another snake but just coincidentally, the tip hitting the arm of the arm of that woman as well. The three of them now are backing away from the fight just as Garak feels another subtle rumble beneath his feet. _And here you were deriding yourself for missing out on seeing the quaint local fauna by using air travel._ It's clear, of course that they'll need to head back to the rocky plateau, and equally clear why Nog had balked at the shorter route. _It would seem then that this will be a delightful survival game, but then as for those three, if anything they appear to be headed in the opposite direction we need to go..._

"Garak-" Julian's voice cuts through that reverie as he steadies himself, head turning wildly from Molly to him. Garak sees her gesture again quickly, and right at the time he notices in Keiko's hand a small round object with a wick at the end and he has a particularly sinking feeling.

He doesn't have time to contemplate it, or ever even know what Julian was about to say. The ground erupts again, this time in a pincer to Watters' motley formation. He quickly searches for Nog seeing him struggle to stand behind the first creature, clearly still disoriented. Garak can only imagine another auditory attack is coming and before Julian becomes a liability once more, he realizes they need to get out of here. That's not to say that he doesn't feel a bit of guilt at deserting the Ferengi, but he can only carry Julian in a pinch, and Watters, Farris, along with Collins are the key holders, not Nog. Garak does have a flash of concern for the safety of said keys when Watters jumps back from the second creature, just as Jadzia fires another one of those bolts straight into its mouth.

Garak hears a secondary shriek now and as Julian freezes stone, Garak sighs and squats, awkwardly upending him knowing their only chance is the rocks. _Yes, the rocks some few kilometers east, my you're certainly going to work off those few extra kilo you've gained enjoying Leeta's rich food._ Julian might express concern were the circumstances different, about sudden forced activity still being one of the leading causes of heart attacks in older men, human and Cardassian alike, but Garak supposes that's a risk he'll need to take. There’s another wave of tremors rocking the ground violently beneath him and he has far more confidence in his heart than their current circumstances.

"Cover!" he hears shrieked not sure from who but likely Molly and he's no Guls damned idea how he's supposed to manage _that_ right now of all times but he’s certain the warning isn't shouted in vain. Some thirty feet out, Garak drops to his knees, fighting that instant erratic thought to use Julian's body for cover. Instead he throws an arm- the left, he needs it less- over the back of Julian's head since he seems incapable of doing so himself.

It's then the explosion rocks the ground hard, sand flying, more screams come from Guls only knows who. He doesn't dare look, another explosion immediately following, further out but just as intense. His sense of time is scrambled. His perception has also doubtlessly slowed as the delay between the blasts and the rain of blood down on the two of them seems to be at least several seconds. From the smell alone, he's sure that the majority of the innards and outerds? _Is that even a word, Elim?_...belong to the creature. But there is also the smell of human blood mixed in there as well and he certainly hopes that Julian has a strong stomach because experience reminds him that it's hardly uncommon for men and women to violently retch when the insides of one's comrade are splattered across one's outsides... Garak has always despised vomit.

He hears a scream then, though not from the creature but some female that he cannot quite identify.

"Keep going..." Julian's voice gasps to him as another rumble starts and he knows he doesn't have much time to question what's going on behind them. He knows that he needs to get them far away fast and let whoever follow as they will but without the map... He hesitates, hardly relishing the thought of being trapped to die in the hot desert sun, but then comes another explosion. There’s one after another following, the wind kicking dust and debris everywhere, before a final explosion- a slightly softer different pitch- is nothing but smoke. Well, that certainly answers several questions as Julian grimaces, half throwing Garak's arm off, standing shakily. "Keep going," he repeats only sounding marginally more steady, and Garak can see, or rather _can't_ see anything behind them. _A diversion. And a rather lethal one at that, but it seems that was the intent the entire time._

Then presumably the three of them have some plan in mind to retake Yoshi. The grim expression on Jadzia's face loading that crossbow immediately is at the forefront of his thoughts. He doesn't dare look back since this has also afforded _them_ time.  _But that still leaves the matter of the keys. Surely if they were relying on the Ferengi to obtain the keys from the others then..._

"Nog’s meeting us. Go," Julian growls in a low voice that is so remnant of their torrid nights aboard the ship that Garak quite nearly mentally blushes. But he recovers without missing a beat, and he laces his arm with Julian’s, helping him along while he struggles with his equilibrium. Garak doesn't share Julian's confidence in Nog, but he hardly has much choice in the matter. He hears another blast, much farther out, and he determines that it will just need to sort itself out, as he and Julian start running in earnest. He prays they’re headed in the direction of the rock. For even if Julian were _not_ still half disoriented, Garak has yet to witness any hint of avian magnetic orientation.

But what he does notice is that the vibrations are starting to grow more faint along with the blasts. _So they hunt by sound, by vibration through the ground. It's obvious then why we should have stayed on the rock. Ah, but that would hardly have afford so rich an opportunity. Eliminate the enemy and then take care of the liability._ He bites back that nasty smile thinking that Julian may very well cut his throat were he to say such a thing out loud. _But of course, family or no, better not to have any liabilities and surely any upstanding young man would gladly sacrifice himself for the necessity_ _of the greater good. Ah, but you're not thinking like a human now, are you? You know they're going on a rescue mission no matter how foolish. That's the way of humans. They wouldn't even consider removing Section 31's precious bargaining chip, no, they'd sooner risk what's likely more valuable personnel, again for one augmented onworlder._

But that's merely another character flaw of his and he forces himself back to the immediate and out of other people's problems. Garak almost doesn't dare look back, but he knows that whatever danger may lie, keeping his face turned away will not make it disappear. And he has a rather keen sense developed over the years to feel eyes on his back, especially malicious ones. But as he turns he sees nothing, and not a sign of those he should be meeting with. He hadn't quite expected such however but still, he's almost afraid for a moment that they may have met a similar fate as those left behind. _But you know better. Your colleagues know enough about gathering information not to blindly rush in. No, that's probably who you sense after all which means the rock should be nearby._ He certainly hopes so, because adrenaline can only carry him so far, and with the fading sound of the blasts and the realization that they've surely run clear- the ground growing sandy then hard again- that jog is catching up with him.

Julian, of course is disgustingly fresh, and Garak finds it sickening that a man nearly as old as he is can tackle such an exercise with such little exertion. Garak almost has a mind to trip him as Julian passes him, that rock coming into view at last.

"Well then, Garak," he says when Garak nearly stumbles over the first raise of stone. "Shall I tell you what the plan is from here, or shall I leave that to our hungry little friends out there?" His look is so dark and ominous, that Garak finds himself almost inappropriately aroused. “I think we understand now who truly has the advantage.” He files that away for a later time perhaps and forgets that automatic reminder to himself that there will be no later. He smiles at Julian, thinking how fortuitous it will be indeed to only have to contend with him and Watters' crew at most. Whatever Julian is carrying in that bag, tugs insistently at Garak’s curiosity, but he has his own secrets kept carefully hidden. The sedative, after all, is still neatly and safely tucked away until he needs it.

"I'm all ears, my dear," he says with the innocence of a human saint, practically glowing when Julian shoots him another darkly suspicious look. _And as they say here onworld, Happy Birthday to me._


	38. The Quick Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak and Julian argue over their next step but find themselves faced with an unexpected arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later than I was hoping due to a day trip but I wanted to spend extra time on the edits. Definitely having fun with some of these chapters even if they get a bit overly dramatic and crazy. It's only gonna get wilder from here on out so strap yourself in and get ready to feel the G's... Garak, that is haha. Thank you all those of you following along this insanity it's been a blast. C&C is always welcome.

Garak has never considered murder to be his first solution to a problem. Oh certainly it is a tool like anything else to be used when appropriate, but Garak had learned early on that while the dead could most certainly be useful in the gathering of information, the living were far more advantageous to his particular skill set. After all, one does not spend a lifetime honing a craft of nuance, of misdirection, of manipulation, only to fritter it away with something as crude as a phaser blast. Whatever garish romanticism, Westworld humans have granted to such things as "showdowns", raids, train robberies, daring shootouts and the like, Garak knows such things for what they truly are; lazy and sloppy solutions to more complex problems. Even given all of that, however, he finds himself more than a little disappointed when Julian does not immediately suggest the most expedient solution to their Section 31 issue. At this point it would seem a far greater liability to allow them to return home. Westworld, after all, is a planet without alliance, without central authority, an outlaw haven really, and as Garak has come to understand it is generally accepted that those who venture onworld take their lives into their own hands as it were.

"I hardly think that we'd be met with a swarm of Starfleet down here should they not return, given what I've been told of Westworld's somewhat unique status," Garak points out reasonably after Julian gives him the entire ridiculous explanation. "And I should think it obvious by now that unless you send a very clear signal they're just going to keep coming. I believe that little display established, my dear, that you're not above a little convenient murder when it suits you so-"

"There is a _very_ clear line between defending one's family and murder in cold blood," Julian retorts heated. "For God's sake, I'm not a killer!"

"Mmm... a killer... one who kills. Perhaps you meant to say murderer. But then again I suppose you don't consider passively allowing a man to be consumed by an alien creature to be anything that could be helped. Ah, that's right for you were clearly incapacitated so one would hardly expect you to be able to assist. Convenient when we take into account that a man of your capabilities would be more than able to rescue a man in distress. Your problem, dear Julian, is that you go to great lengths to retain some pithy semblance of human nobility while lording it over us lesser creatures like the rest of the Federation."

"If you think I'm going to stand here and take any kind of moralizing from some Cardassian spy-" Julian is in his face, and Garak is more than willing to get right back in it, not backing down in the slightest.

"Is that all? _Spy_ is going to be your go to insult? I'm terribly disappointed in you, dear Julian, of all the aspersions, all the castigations that one could throw at this murderous Cardie, this sadistic spoonhead, the fact that you seize upon such a pedestrian descriptor, is frankly a far greater insult than any insult such an unimaginative tongue could possibly-"

"Unimaginative tongue?!" Julian interrupts him, eyes wide, adorably so really if he were being quite honest. "I assure you, _Mister_ Garak, Mister superior Carassian _nobody_ ," _Oh, you've no idea how deliciously that one stung, my dear._ "That if there is one thing your lying lizard mouth has ever said about my bloody tongue, _unimaginative_ is not one of them!" That raise in Julian's tone, that heated shout makes the ridges of his neck swell flush in this the most inappropriate of times.

"I shall concede that point," Garak answers sweetly, storing that tease for a more opportune time.

Julian, however, does not quite seem aware of how these things are meant to go, still hooting at him like some primitive hominid. Garak supposes that he'll need to further Julian's education on the matter when all is said and done.

"Concede the point?! You're missing the point entirely! You still haven't agreed to-" Julian stops abruptly, face losing that flush in an impressively quick drain of blood. His eyes look behind Garak, past him to some sight he was surely not expecting. "You traitor! You miserable treacherous _snake_!”

“Please control yourself, my dear, this is hardly the time for such a licentious courtship.”

“Don’t play games with me, I knew I couldn’t trust you!” Garak has an idea as Julian stares hard behind him looking delightfully furious as to what it is he’s witnessing. What concerns him, however is that his instructions were quite clear, and there is no reason that he should encounter anyone still miles out from the caves.

            Garak has never been one to easily dismiss warning bells in his head. So even as he offers Julian a smile that serves to infuriate him further with a slow turn, he keeps his guard most assuredly, up. He’s thankful that he does. He does not recognize either of the two men approaching seemingly out of nowhere. And while it’s entirely possible that in the year that he’s been out of commission so to speak, that there have been those who’ve risen up through the ranks, he’s also made it a point to watch those promising young recruits for a considerable time. The young man on the left vaguely resembles a somewhat competent fellow named Krim Tark. Competent, unimaginative, but incredibly proficient at bureaucratic espionage and assassination. But he, if Garak recalls correctly (and he almost always does), isn’t one who’s that intimately acquainted with Lok, and even if he was, would be all but useless for the purpose which Garak requires.  No, Garak is quite certain that this is _not_ Tark. The other man, the shorter one looking around anxiously is even more suspect. But nonetheless, Garak has always been thorough and he would be remiss if he didn’t at least _pretend_ to vet their credentials.

            There’s also the matter of Julian who could be either an invaluable ally in this extremely suspect encounter or a grave liability. He’s going to bet on the former, turning around completely.

“Normally I take issue with having a strange man at my back, my dear, but strange and angry though you may be, it may very well be necessary for you to maintain that position.” He speaks the words in standard, mouth nearly closed, a crack at the corner, some ventrilo-something or other trick Jadzia was quite proud of. He’s a fair mimic, at least in Federation Standard, and he’s sure that despite the imperceptible volume that Julian still hears him. At least that is his hope as he steps warily forward, taking note of their attire. It’s a wise decision. Some of the more daring sectors of Rush Valley have adopted, Garak has read, to clothe themselves in the manner of the scattered desert outposts that border the hot sands just north of Nyissa. They wear large tan bolts of fabric, ponchos, they’re called with a myriad of pockets dotting the inner lining. It’s a handy garment, and when coupled with the large wide brim hats make identification particularly difficult. Garak himself has found the rush woven fabric though to be terribly fussy for the fine stitch length that he prefers to employ.

            He doesn’t know the practicality of such garments in Port Town but not having been able to explore it on foot he can’t rule it out entirely. Still, they don’t seem to have come from there. It’s likely they’ve even come from points further west or south. All signs point to an indirect route. They wouldn’t have come from the drill. None of the towns between the drill and here would offer such clothing without a deliberate intent and a fair amount of knowledge. Then the most likely answer is-

“May justice be served from the shadows.” The taller one speaks, accented, the code an Order code not used in at least a hundred years from the history that Garak knows. They’re from Nyissa then- onworld. Which raises so many more questions and at least twice as many alarm bells. What he knows right away though is that Lok isn’t the one who sent them. But then that raises the next question of how an intelligence agency that he knows has no connection to the existing Order would come to intercept a message offworld. It was his understanding from his briefing that he was to have no contact with them and that would be to his own benefit.

            Naturally, his mind immediately jumps to the most nefarious of scenarios and given the evidence so far he doesn’t think that a stretch. And yet they hadn’t opened fire upon seeing him. He cannot imagine there to be any confusion about his identity. Surely they’ve had a clear shot… _A clear shot, but no cover. And Julian has been able to see them for quite some time now, hasn’t he? There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, far too great a chance of being exposed no… the best opportunity is subterfuge. Perhaps even divide and conquer. The only thing you can be sure of is that there could not possibly be a third man. The rock plain still stretches as far as you can see flat and barren. If there is a third then he wouldn’t be here. You don’t know what weapons they employ onworld for assassinations, for all you know the second they’re close enough you’ll get a poisoned dagger in the gut. Your only saving grace in this instance is Julian, the unknown factor. You’d be dead already if they could be sure of their own safety. Of course that means they’ll be targeting you both but that can hardly be helped. Two on two, that should allow for even odds in theory but you’ve no idea of their identities or capabilities and therefore, Elim, assume you’re outmatched._

There is the deeply held truism that one cannot succeed in the Order if one tends to their own pride above all else; in the short one perhaps, but in the long run, justice shall always be triumphant. And Garak, while being quite proud of his achievements, has never allowed his confidence in his capabilities to cause him to underestimate an opponent. Nor does he, like Nal Dejar enjoy the game so greatly that he would deliberately drag it out, give an unnecessary handicap, or anything else that might cost him. As he approaches cautiously, but not overly so, it galls him that he must rely on Julian’s backing in addition to his own cunning, but the odds grow far worse should he not account for him at all.

“I’m sorry, I believe you must have me mistaken for someone else. You see we were on an expedition for some raw materials that I might use to dye some bolts of fabric and seem to have become hopelessly separated from the rest of our caravan. I’m sure you gentlemen can appreciate the danger out here what the with the… snakes and all.” It’s the best he can come up with under the circumstances until he’s afforded an opportunity to incapacitate and question.  Now, all Julian needs to do is play along-

“Oh we’re not going to do secret handshake?” Julian asks still sounding quite vexed, and while Garak supposes he cannot fault him given the circumstantial evidence, it _is_ quite inconvenient for what he’s trying to accomplish. He resists the urge to flat out chastise him, knowing that they need to believe his relationship to Julian’s close enough that the human would risk life and limb to protect him. The smile never leaves Garak’s face even as Julian continues shouting. “Oh, I’m sorry, pardon me, you’re still pretending to be a bloody tailor. How could I possibly forget you’re not Elim Garak, spy, traitor, and killer. Yes, I’ll just shut up while you continue your business we'll just pretend you're discussing fabrics and patterns and not some double entendre for how you're going to slay the lot of us and make off with the bloody Kironide!” Garak keeps smiling. He’s certain that Julian could not have given an absolute better opening to the two in front of them if he was actively trying. _Ah, I believe this is one of those occasions where the colorful human term completely and utterly fucked would best apply. Alright, Elim, there goes your impregnable front and doubtless the two will likely seek to separate the two of you or convince Julian that your death would be advantageous to him. And this is exactly why, for better or worse, Dejar prefers to work alone, you know._

“You’ll have to forgive my lover,” Garak offers with a bow trying to quickly scan the resources of his memory to determine if he caught enough of that signing to be able to convey a message. No, no he hasn’t. In which case there’s only one choice that falls to him and he isn’t sure how subtly he can manage it with their attention so firmly on him. “I’m afraid the heat tends to make humans irritable, and he may in fact be suffering from a bit of mild heat stroke. Do you have a doctor with you?”

"I _am_ a doctor, _Garak_ , as you're quite aware unless you expect me to hang myself all over you and pretend to be your dull-witted utterly besotted lover who couldn't tie his shoes without you."

"My, what a fanciful and vivid picture you paint," Garak observes mildly as every inner part of him wants to do nothing more than merrily throttle Julian mercilessly into the ground by that lovely neck of his. “Clearly you’ve given that particular bit of censure some thought.” Well then, it appears they're going to have to go with plan B, after all.

Garak sighs rather dramatically, and is about to speak, when he realizes a very important fact in this entire equation; Julian has not moved from where he stands behind him. Which in a true argument would not make any sense. There’s no reason for Julian to remain, half hissing those aspertions to the back of his neck. That’s not normal human behavior. That’s not normal Julian Bashir behavior. He should be standing in front of him waving his arms, pointing his finger the same way he was a moment ago. He should be grabbing Garak’s shoulder, demanding he turn and face him. The fact that he doesn’t, the fact that instead Garak feels a pinprick of pressure to his back aside that holstered gun tells him everything he needs to know. _S…O…S…Yes!_ And that is when Garak realizes exactly what it is that Julian’s doing. He feels a pang of guilt for doubting Julian’s cunning but guilt, like scales are meant to be shed to the ground with routine regularity. _You have my assurance, my dear, I’ll more than make it up to you later._ _But this, I can work with. Oh you’ve given me a_ _beautiful_ _amount to work with..._

He is aware that during this terse exchange the two men in front of him have been observing quietly. Their focus has been a careful vacillation between him and Julian and it pains him to think that two potential talents might be put to waste in such a foolish endeavor. He can only hope that Julian will afford him an opportunity to question one as he sees fit, but again, the odds of that are slim for a well trained agent. Garak feels the slight press of fingers again as Julian indicates with that subtle pressure that he’s going for the gun. Garak has no idea how fair a shot Julian is, but at this close range, he’s sure that there won’t be any misfires- at least not unintentionally.

“I’m sick of this ridiculous charade, Garak. I’m sick of your lies. You’ve already gotten the others killed, you’ve drug me out here with promises of fame, glory, infamy, you promised me this was the last time, the last mad treasure hunt and you _swore_ on the bloody State-“ _Ah, now that’s a nice touch._ “-that you’d sent the transmission to Lok that you were wrong, that we didn’t need anyone else and that this is all _ours_ -“

“If I may interject, just a moment, Julian, I might add that quite possibly-“

“No. I’m don’t with your interjections, I’m done with your shit!” He feels the slip of the gun from its holster and taking a silent breath, Garak’s hands go up above his head as he turns with a step back, impressed at their improvised coordination. He notes that while hands from the two men hovered dangerously above their own weapons, they were stayed the moment Julian turned the firearm on him. He takes another nervous step back knowing that he’ll have to rely on Julian’s awareness of their movements. _Of course they’re finished now. They might have had a chance in a fair draw but they’ll be dead now before they can even think to counter._

            Garak had been curious as to the believability of Julian’s performance that would cause such a foolish letting down of their guard, but when he sees Julian’s face, he decides that however overly dramatic, it’s certainly effective. _Perhaps you don’t have quite the grasp of the nuances of human behavior to fully appreciate what you’re witnessing, gentlemen._ In fact, if he didn’t know any better himself, he would swear that Julian was a man completely at his limit and more than capable of shooting him dead. His hand wavers on the gun just the right touch, his face dark flushed and furious. Garak takes another nervous step back far too professional to let any secret looks pass between them.

“Julian. Put the gun down.” He speaks the words clearly, firmly, as if he truly were in fear for his life and there is just a small part of him that considers Julian may very well shoot the lot of them dead.

“I’m done listening to you Garak. I’m done with the broken promises. We’re both going to die out here before we even reach the caves and so help me if you think I’m not taking you and your damn cronies with me you are _very_ sadly mistaken.”

            A bit overdone but effective enough. Garak can feel the tension practically radiating from the men behind him, the shorter stepping forward still at Garak’s back.

“We’re not the agents he sent for, human,” that low voice is disdainful, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world, speaking in accented Federation Standard. Well, Garak supposes it would be to anyone trained, but Julian can hardly be faulted for that.

“For God’s sake, is lying some esoteric Cardassian virtue?! You actually expect me to believe that the two of you crossed an ocean, a continent, a galaxy oh but you’re not working with him. Right. I’ve got a bridge to sell you in Yuna while we’re at it.”

“The request came from the Detapa Council.” Garak wonders if that isn’t some other agency of the Cardassian State of Nyissa. He doesn’t recognize it from what he’s learned about the ruling government. “Your lover here is a wanted man. But you’d know that already, you can’t miss it. That unfortunate face is all over the planet.”

“The picture hardly does him justice,” Julian answers in a tone that makes Garak wonder if he’s not in fact being insulted. “So you want the bounty then.” He snorts. “Sorry, I’ve given this miserable lizard the best years of my life. If anyone’s earned a stipend for their troubles, it’s me.”

            “You’re not going to kill me, Julian,” Garak says mildly. “You haven’t even turned the safety off the gun.” The cue is received perfectly. Garak has his doubts that Julian has much experience with the piece but the way he’s holding it one handed, too stiff, it might be to Garak’s advantage if the successive recoil breaks his arm. Then again that could be merely part of the act as well. Regardless, the more the men believe this charade the better for him. Julian switches the safety off and cocks the hammer back for dramatic effect.

“The hell I’m not.” Julian looks at them with that little puppy dog determined face Garak’s come to find irresistible. “If you don’t think I’ll shoot the both of you for that bounty either I suggest you think again.”

“You’re the one who isn’t thinking, human,” the taller man scoffs with an arrogance that Garak finds a little sad considering he’s going to die. Still, he hopes Julian shoots him first, that nasally voice offends him. “Do you think that the State spares valuable resources for pithy bounties? This is an order from the Detapa Council on Cardassia Prime. They want the head of the _snake_.” 

“It’s not surprising when his own lover’s about to kill him,” the poor man’s Tark chimes in nastily.

            There’s a laugh that follows that and Garak is careful not to allow any shock to cross his face for Julian to see. _The snake…? No… it can’t possibly be…_

“Well would you look at that, Garak, even your own government wants you dead.”

“The ruling body on Cardassia is the Central Command, Julian,” Garak answers as loftily as he can. “Perhaps you’d do well to pay closer attention to those little details although I’m aware that your limited human attention span doesn’t allow for much beyond sexual intercourse and promises of riches.”

“Perhaps _you’d_ do well do remember who has the gun here and I don’t imagine then that your countrymen are going to help you either.”

“No one’s going to help him. The Council’s been overthrown. The Order is gone.”

“Offworld fools. That’s what Archon Lissette calls those who chose to remain on Cardassia Prime. Slaves to the shadows. But the Council has a better vision for Cardassia now that that bloated slug of corruption Tain is dead.”

            Garak looks straight ahead for a moment, seeing nothing but painful bright sky, finally dropping his eyes to the rock beneath his feet as the two continue talking. He’s never had much patience for those who would rather cling to a foolish fantasy world rather than accept cold reality staring them in the face. Face it and adapt; that’s been the story of his life up until now. _That’s what you do, Elim. Face it. Adapt. You could see it coming. You could see the work of those whispering dissenters but… But does that mean you failed? Does that mean it even matters? Tain gone… order gone… Council, council what… then how can you… Can you go home now? Home to what? What the… What in the State is the…_ Garak swallows hard processing, trying damn hard to keep the ground from dropping out underneath him. _Just… just…_ He takes a deep breath deciding that there’s nothing wrong with letting that genuine reaction show through. If anything it will just…

“It would seem…” Garak begins slowly, not able to lift his head to look at Julian. “It would seem that you are correct then, my dear… No one is coming for me.”

            But there is a slight shift that he sees in Julian’s feet. Boots on the ground, one small sway, shifting of weight forward and that does prompt him to look up just long enough to see an equal flicker down from Julian.

“Haven’t I always told you, Garak… screw enough people over and you get exactly the end that you deserve.” That tone makes him want to spit pity right in Julian’s face, take the barrel to his stomach and pull the trigger himself just to see that stunned look on when his intestines are blown all over that shirt.

“You’ve told me a lot of things Julian,” he answers softly.

“If you think I’ve a shred of pity for you-“ _I can see it written all over your face, in your voice, in that tension on the trigger, Julian. Not pity, but that damned empathy of yours and I don’t know what’s worse right now._ In fact, Garak isn’t sure what exactly to feel about anything right now. He’s not even positive that he’s thought to blink. He sees Julian look to the two still behind him. “What are you going to do to him?” He projects that uncertainty well, Garak gives him that. He notices absently that the blood drain from his arms is starting to make them ache.

            “What else do you do with a _snake_ , human? You cut off its head and let the body thrash around until it stops moving.”

“Maybe you burn it.” That nasally whine again and Garak almost laughs, imagining setting that short sour faced dullard on fire. But he doesn’t allow that to distract him. He doesn’t allow _ennui_ to distract him... No, that’s not the proper word. Litost. That’s the word; the torment of realization of one’s own despair. But even that depth of misery can’t be allowed to keep him from seeing it. Because there’s a very particular piece of this puzzle and possibly the last that he’s not going to miss. _The snake. Not just that word but that emphasis. Not just a noun but a title._ _That_ _title. And you know exactly who uses that title. Of course it’s a common thing on world here… it’s a common metaphor. But not when it’s this convenient, not in this context. Even so, this doesn’t have Dukat’s touch. None of it does. Not exactly…_

“Then I hope you don’t mind me finishing this here myself,” Julian says softly, such a believable man about to mercy murder his lover that it makes Garak wonder what memory it is that he’s surely dredged from the depths to affect such a performance. He can picture the indifferent hand wave and he’s almost eager enough for Julian to do it that he doesn’t ask, but that would be unforgivably lax for the sake of being petty.

            “Wait,” he interjects, starting to turn, aborting that, a man in turmoil. “Tell me who sent you… Please,” he begs, catching Julian’s eyes so that he’ll hold off just long enough to- _What’s with that look on your face, Julian?_ He’d thought it a deliberate affectation before for the benefit of their two targets, but now that he looks closer it seems that Garak was misreading him. _Why are you-_ He doesn’t finish that thought, the two gunshots coming in quick succession as they ring out. They don’t come from Julian’s gun. In fact they come from behind him. He doesn’t need to see the two men drop. The splatter of fabric and grey matter to either side of him is all the evidence he needs of their demise. His first thought, oddly, is for the stains that are surely never going to come out of his clothing. The second, naturally is far bleaker, a sinking feeling that this is only the beginning of what promises to be the greatest hell he’s ever lived through.


	39. Winners of the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery shooter revealed, and thus starts the last trek to the Kironide!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly this wasn't a last minute rush job, I just had a lot going on today and well this weekend in general. Anyway, I don't want to call this a filler chapter, but there was a part of me that wanted to move ahead a bit faster. Still, there were things I wanted to foreshadow but enough stalling, next chapter the shit is really gonna hit the fan as it were. I always find Nog a bit hard to write, and for now we'll see if the rest of the Valiant crew is out for the count. Thank you everyone along for this crazy and awesome ride and of course, your comments are always welcome!

“Well, it seems that our mysterious assassin will have to remain just that for the time being- a mystery,” Garak remarks mildly, filing away every little tidbit of information for later review. It wouldn’t do to sink to the ground in some primal human scream now when it seems as if he’s going to need to remain in survival mode. He has no delusions that the fire might possibly come from a hostile source given what happened back in the sand. Still, Julian held fast without breaking that character. That makes him cautiously optimistic. He notes that Julian still has the gun raised, as he lowers his arms, the blood rushing back with pins and painful needles. He winces, shrugging his shoulders, trying to work the muscles back to some semblance of life. “Should I be concerned?” He asks, noting that the gun is still pointed at him. “As you’ve seen, I’ve been nothing but upfront with you, my dear.” Which isn’t entirely accurate, of course, it just so happens that the unfortunate circumstance of his entire life thus far has strangely worked out in his favor. He never could have anticipated such a massive upheaval in his home world in such a short amount of time, let alone one in which the Order no longer exists. And while he may not find it particularly unusual for someone to have marked him for death there is something strange about the entire scenario that he cannot quite grasp.

Julian’s expression is unusually unreadable, but he lowers his arm with a sigh.

“I really don’t know what to even believe with you, Garak,” he says as he hands the weapon back carefully. “But it seems as if we may have had… better luck than I’d expected.” He looks distinctly uneasy now as he speaks, brushing past Garak, stopping in front of the two bodies. Garak turns, seeing only Nog and Collins approaching, both ashen faced. Collins, he notes, is visibly shaking.

“I expect you’ll want to pick their pockets,” Julian answers sounding almost angry, and Garak thinks that if anyone ought to be on the very of a veritable temper tantrum right now, _he’s_ earned that right more than anyone else. He sees Julian’s finger reach up to his face, and touch the blood spatter carefully, almost solicitously before shaking his head and wiping it off on his pant leg. He is not entirely wrong, though Garak hardly expects to find anything of note on either corpse.

“You say that so dismissively, Julian,” Garak calls out as he kneels by the first, “but if I find any of that rock candy you’re so fond of, I promise you’ll be sorry.

He’s already fishing beneath the poncho when he sees Julian pause. Even with that back to him he can perfectly well picture that look of disgusted irritation and he basks in that disapproval. A character failing perhaps, to delight so in playing into those ignorant misconceptions, but if Julian wishes to continue their acquaintance, better to acclimate himself to such necessities as these sooner rather than later. _And really, he acts as if he’s not the one who led an entire group of men to be eaten by some onworld monster…_

“You’re right of course,” Julian says suddenly, as if Garak had actually spoken those words aloud. I’m sorry.” He slows his walk thoughtfully. “I can only imagine… you know… nevermind. If you find any... em rock candy, that is, I’d hope you save me some.” Julian turns with a painful smile that Garak looks up just in time to see. He returns it, his face tight, not sure of the significance of what passes between them, but feeling it nonetheless. He finds south Cardassian currency of a sort that may prove useful which he quickly pockets. There are coordinates, _their_ coordinates he’s sure, possibly in the handwriting of the true power behind the scenes, but he cannot be sure.

There’s also the matter niggling in the back of his mind pertaining to the transport. If they’re from Nyissa then it’s quite possible they haven’t hired anyone and flown themselves over, or even that a third person is still back with their transport. _Well, be that as it may, Elim there’s nothing to be done about it now. You’ll need to settle this final matter and with an unknown entity in charge of the government on Cardassia, better the Kironide be destroyed as this lot wishes. Wrap it up, leave the bodies for the carrion feeders and work on your next course of action._ It gives him a focus at least until he has time to sit down in his room, get completely inebriated, and ponder the direction his life is headed. He stands with a sigh, until now having tuned out whatever hysterical shrieking has begun back and forth between Julian and Nog. Naturally the Ferengi and the human woman have their Starfleet ideals to bleat about, but Julian has decided for once to be blessedly pragmatic. Garak watches Nog throwing the gun across the ground and he silently chastises the potential damaging of a useful weapon.

“They’re still back there, Doctor Bashir!” he hears Collins yelling as he goes to retrieve it, and thinks that if anything they ought to go back and make sure that every last one of the potential obstacles is dead. Somehow he thinks in this instance the most logical course of action would go over, to quote a colorful Westworld idiom, like a ton of bricks. Garak examines the weapon, just as Julian informs her under no circumstances are they returning to risk their lives, stopping just short of referring to Watters and his jaunty little band of cronies as the enemy. Determining that it still ought to be perfectly serviceable, but equally determined that it will not be _he_ who is relying on it during a life or death struggle, Garak calmly strolls back over and presents the weapon to Nog.

“I don’t need it,” Nog grits out at him. “Didn’t you hear us, they’re all likely _dead_!” _We can only hope..._

“We can still go back. _Please_ Nog, Dr. Bashir we can still-“

“Yes, yes, we can be the rough riders storming back onto the scene grandly to save the day,” Garak remarks somewhat more caustically than he intended. “However, need I remind you _children_ ,” He says, the smile never leaving his face as he shoves the weapon back into Nog’s reluctant hand, “that this is exactly the outcome that was desired. _Better_ , dare I say than what we could have even hoped for.”

He’s not certain who opens their mouth first to protest but he holds up a hand, turning around not even deigning to argue with whatever nonsense either of them comes up with. Julian can play the babysitter placating their delicate morals.

“Yes, we all mourn the loss of a great man. We should all take a moment, toast, tip our hats, say a prayer, whatever is the custom here on Westworld for the deceased be they valiant or villain or some combination of both. I assure you there is no one more deeply affected by the untimely passing of dear Captain Watters and the equally beloved Commander Farris than I,” he declares as he begins walking.

“Garak,” Julian warns and he blithely ignores.

“But be that as it may, though our hearts may be heavy with grief for those who’ve laid down their lives for the greater good, for the soul of the universe, for the right of a benevolently despotic regime to gently threaten imprisonment and altruistically economically enslave-“

“Garak…” that tone sounds a lot more threatening this time.

“Say it again, my dear… just like that,” Garak  hisses back at him, and the icy furious stare as Julian realizes that he’s playing exactly into that flirting makes Garak straighten up just a little taller as he begins walking in the direction of the caves. At least where he supposes the direction of where the caves lie. It isn’t terribly difficult to follow by the direction of the sun and in any case-

“So that’s it? We’re just going to leave them there?!” Collins is starting to sound near hysterical and a Garak takes a second glance at her uniform covered in both blood and dirt, torn, a large gash on her calf, he supposes the situation only grew worse once that blast called more of the creatures. “We came to you to get help! Nog you can-“

“Dory…” Gary sees Nog swallow hard, and he realizes that in the last few moments that he’d grown quite quiet. “Even if we go back now. We’re not going to make it.”

“After everything that the Captain has done for us we can’t-“

“Everything he’s done?! He nearly got us killed on that survey mission. We should have returned after Captain Ramirez was killed, we should have come back to file our report not chasing fame, not risking the lives of the rest of the ship for what?! For the secret weapon against the Dominion?! Do you know how stupid I was?! How pointless this is?! There’s no glory, no profit, no justice no nothing! Yes it works! Of course it works but do you know what else it does?! It gives you hoo-mans powers, it gives Ferengi the same powers but at a much higher price and I refuse to let a something like that get into anyone’s hands to use against us!” _What it does to Ferengi?_ Garak doesn’t miss that little detail and it makes him faintly uneasy thinking of whatever implications it may have for other races. Better, perhaps it’s destroyed after all.

“Nog, the Federation would _never…_ Captain Watters isn’t… we didn’t do this to-“ She stops suddenly, and Garak can almost see her as a child clamping two hands over her mouth having said something she clearly was not supposed to. _Ah, Elim, if you had ten slips of latinum for every time you’ve been completely correct about a hunch you’d have long retired a wealthy man._

Nog, while naïve, is certainly not stupid, and Garak can see from a mile away, so to speak, the immediate connection.

“We? Is that what this is? Is this just a game?!” Garak considers as his voice rises to a higher agitated pitch that it may not have been a particularly wise decision to give the weapon back after all. “You, Watters, Farris, all of you, is this all of you in on this, Dory?!” _And the rest of the deceased crew I’d imagine as well. What’s that poem Julian was half slurring at you the other night?  Drink and the devil had done for the rest? Yes, fifteen dead men or in this case going by the math, eight or thereabouts._

“Nog no, of course not! It’s not like that at all!” _Perhaps they won’t be at this long._

“Then what’s it like Dory?! Two years! It’s been two years that you’ve been lying to me!” _Ah, it would seem not..._

“I _never_ lied to you Nog! Not about how I feel! But you don’t understand! How could a Ferengi understand anything other than profit and money?! We thought you were going to steal it, Nog! I _know_ you’ve been tempted-“

“I would _never_ put the lives of every Ferengi in the universe at stake for profit!”

Garak considers the odds of being able to sneak the keys away without notice. The longer the two of them rail at each other, the better the odds of any of those presumed dead reappearing out of the sands like some avenging angel and Garak has frankly had enough of such nonsense to hold him over at least until dinner. Cardassians don’t typically sweat like humans, nor do they tend to overheat as such either, but the _dry_ heat is not one of his favorite things without an abundant source of water. At this point, he’s even willing to think about resorting to more drastic means just to keep this operation moving along. He has an inkling that Julian has a similar notion, wearing his exasperation far more grandly. Garak sees the drum of fingers to his thigh as he rakes back those thick sweat sticky strands of hair. _Yes, that’s exactly what you need after the day you’ve been having, Elim. A nice relaxing drink of kanar and a good thorough drink of Julian to finish it off._ Julian however, seems too piqued to acquiesce without a fair bit of baiting but then again, that _is_ the fun of it.

“I must say,” Garak begins jovially, only to be cut off viciously with Julian snapping at him like an agitated female regnar in heat.

“So help me, Garak if the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘this is going to have to wait until we blow the blasted Kironide to bloody bits’

“I might have said it with a bit less alliteration- I’m afraid the whimsy of your statement belies the gravity of the situation.” He almost thinks he sees a small throb in Julian’s temple at that and it pleases him to no end.

“Nog!” Julian barks sharply, and Garak feels a pang of disappointment that he’s not going to continue their little tête-à-tête. But that rebuke breaks through the tension, both Nog, and Collins looking at him smartly. “Lieutenant Collins, I sympathize. Truly I do, whether you believe me or not. But the three of us are on a mission to destroy this element before it has the chance to be misused by _either_ party in the war. You have your orders but Captain Watters and Commander Farris are presumed dead, and while I’ve no intention of harming you, I _will_ complete what we’ve set out to do.”

“Beautifully stated,” Garak compliments.

Julian ignores him pointedly, but Garak expected as much. Still, expectation does not automatically equally understanding because really, how Julian is holding that little encounter against him when clearly it was _his_ life being threatened by some rogue operatives…

“I would prefer if you gave us the last key, Lieutenant Collins,” Julian says in a softer tone. “Whatever concerns you have about your safety, I understand, but I hope you can understand me too. I will _not_ allow my…” Julian doesn’t quite continue that sentence with a natural flow. “…my children,” His eyes dart up as if some unseen specter might hear that and he turns a pointed look to Nog. “I refuse to allow them to be used as pawns whatever the reason. Whatever noble justification you give yourself.” He holds out a hand, and he can see Julian catch her eyes carefully, voice softer, that subtle bit of manipulation at play as he whispers to her softly, gently, "Please... give me the key... place the key in my hand." Garak almost wonders if he ought to be jealous at the ease which she does that, Julian pocketing the key carefully. He looks to Nog next.

Nog doesn't meet his eyes, looking away with a sigh. He looks like he's about to say something before thinking better of it. Garak sees Julian smile almost bitterly.

"Whatever Leeta might have told you, it doesn't work on Ferengi," he says with an unusual distance, and Garak finds something entirely curious about the exchange as Nog hands over the keys.

"I trust you, Doctor Bashir,” he says but still doesn’t meet those eyes. Julisn sighs, and looks to Garak almost expectantly. 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to be nearly as cooperative.” Garak resist the urge to beam back at him brightly. No, scratch that, he really cannot help himself. He throws a brilliant grin Julian’s way, sad that he doesn’t see that charming glower in return.

“What a completely, obscene thing to suggest, dear Julian,” he answers brightly as Julian shakes his head taking the front of their little line.

“Right. I thought as much. Alright Nog, lead the way. The sooner we get this over, the better.” And Garak nearly thinks that’s the end of it until Julian throws one last little warning his way over his shoulder. “And for God’s sake, Garak just don’t... don’t touch anything and let us handle it.” That plea sounds so pitifully desperate that Garak almost considers the disgusting thought of actually doing as he’s asked. 

“Really, Julian, I find your incessant remonstrations almost offensive,” he answers taking note of that doubtful look. As if he’s going to end this entire unfortunate expedition without taking just a tiny little sample of the stuff they’ve all been going mad over. _Surely, Nog was overreacting in that hysterical way Ferengi do. What’s the worst that could possibly happen? Another migraine?_ He snorts at that thought, certain that all this hype is completely uncalled for. 

Garak has no idea how wrong he’s about to be...


	40. Saddle Mountain Roundup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak and co arrive at the caverns only to find the Kironide suspiciously absent. Why does he have a sinking feeling about this?...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy to have this early with time for some good edits! Also want to give a shout out and thanks to the Cardassian dictionary project by tinsnip and Vyc for giving me some assistance with my own word for "warm piss water". I'm excited for the next few chapters- I'd actually wanted to get in a research trip to some caves but it seems that won't be happening soon enough. Ah well I do want to thank everyone who's been reading since the beginning, your encouragement is amazing! C&C is also always welcome.

Garak is thankful that the remainder of the trek isn’t long. As ill advised as it may have been (depending on who one asks), the shortcut did in fact cut down a great deal of the travel time. It’s fortunate since no one seems to be feeling particularly loquacious in spite of Garak’s best attempts to initiate conversation. Admittedly, inquiring as to the nature of the explosives Julian plans to detonate may not be the most tactful, but it’s a vital bit of information that’s particularly relevant to his continued existence. Garak doesn’t quite put it past Julian not to engage in some noble self sacrifice for the greater good and while that may be well and good for the human and his nobility, it doesn’t exactly bode well for the rest of them. Garak also isn’t entirely sold on the wisdom of detonating such a substance even in what may as well be the middle of nowhere. Surely there haven’t been the necessary studies to know what may arise from exploding 2 tons of such a substance into the air without thought for the local flora and fauna. Every rudimentary experiment thus far has determined, of course, that the effects of Platonian Kironide are cumulative and require constant upkeep to maintain their efficacy, he doesn’t relish some successive generations of telekinetic sandworms terrorizing the west continent. It seems he may well be stuck here for the rest of his natural life and at some point he’d like to enjoy a little sightseeing free of genetically mutated creatures.

_Well, perhaps not free of_ _all_ _genetically mutated creatures…_ He catches himself admiring the sweat soaked white shirt clinging rather nicely to Julian’s body; what he can see around the pack that is. He answers Julian’s turn- preceded by a tensing of shoulders and accompanying suspicious glare- with a pleasant grin. Julian looks about to snap something at him as they approach the rather impressive site, and Garak decides that while a little flirtation is all well and good, he’d rather save such things for the long trip back to Indigo.

“My, that’s a big one,” he remarks completely innocuously as it becomes evident that the cave mouth resembles more some massive ancient amphitheater than the mysterious hole in the ground he’d been imagining. Julian coughs. Garak thinks he mutters something along the lines of “must you cache it in those terms exactly,” but really, he can hardly help Julian’s dirty mind. It’s a perfectly apt descriptor given its imposing size; the rock face must cover some thirty meters high as it curves towards them. He can see where the ground begins to slop up, a steep elevation that stretches as far as the eye can see. It’s quite breathtaking actually- a shell carved out of dark stone, a brilliant green moss patterned up the west side, glistening with moisture that drips down from above in a waterfall of liquid diamonds catching the sunlight majestically.

Garak can also make out traces of rudimentary handholds carved though he doesn’t envy anyone foolish enough to try and climb such a slick surface at that angle. Further down appears to be some steps carved into the stone, equally perilous, as it follows that curve, steep slick rock dark with water. He can see where those steps lead back into a nice opening in the center. The sound of the water is musical; quite lovely really as it streams down and Julian begins a rather bland, pedantic explanation of the history of the caves, the geography, the underground springs that come together to culminate in the wonder that he’s currently beholding. The sight of the water as well as it streams to a narrow channel before disappearing into that large opening worn in the rock also reminds him that he’s quite thirsty. 

And their water, while perfectly potable isn’t particularly appetizing as tepid filtered rubbish in a metal flask. _Of course you’ve had enough survival training to know that one mouthful of… hmmm.. what_ _would_ _the word be in Federation Standard? They’ve such a limited lexicon when it comes to describing the nuances of water with a simple term, no, it’s always adjective upon adjective until you’ve got a towering mouthful of vestigial descriptors. We may be a more loquacious species, but we certainly know how to compensate for the extraneous particles with efficient nouns…_ In any case,  a mouthful of _t’harit_ is infinitely preferable to a million happy parasites traipsing through his intestines. _Though you_ _could_ _always experiment with the carbon filtering tube Jadzia has provided you._ _It isn’t if it would hurt anything to test it out…_

“Alright, Nog, you said the shipment was here, and unless there’s more than one Thrandian Cavern that I’m aware of, I cannot _fathom_ where two tons of Kironide are hiding.” Julian’s voice brings him back to the slightly more important matter of their presence here, that point making him curious. Julian makes a fine point, Garak notes as he examines the rather straightforward layout of the rocks. There’s only the large scoop dripping water rivulets down and a few rocky steps behind into some darkness that he cannot quite peer into. There aren’t any other rocks, any other formations where one would hide containers that size. Unless of course they’re at the top in which case he may very well leave the rest of this in Juilan’s surely capable hands. He’s not acrophobic by any means- he’d certainly prefer the peak of a mountain to some musty miniscule mystery cave- but the thought of trying to scale that without any sort of safety equipment doesn’t exactly appeal to him.

“It’s underneath everything,” Nog says as if that should be the most obvious thing in the world and Garak decides in that moment he doesn’t care if this Dominion flies down right now on a magic carpet, Julian can very well save the Gul’s dd universe without him.

In fact, he’s already reaching into his pocket to retrieve the keys before they even _think_ to venture into that inky darkness. If Watters and some undead hoard appear before him he’ll gladly fight the lot of them off before stepping one foot near that narrow tunnel at the base of the rock.

“Underneath everything?” Julian asks incredulously taking another look around. Garak as well is wondering how such a thing would even be possible with only the eleven that Nog had spoken of and 2 tons of Kironide.

“We dead dropped it,” Nog said as if that should explain everything. At least it makes sense to Julian as Garak sees him practically leap in the air.

“You dead dropped it?! Two tons of cargo containers?!”

“It was contained! We used the old transporter trick on world, the engines held to stop the descent and with the location and weight I calculated that it shouldn’t be more than a kilometer or two below-“

“More than a kilometer or two?! For God’s sake you may have collapsed the entirety of the caverns themselves! I’m amazed there isn’t some massive sinkhole here already!”

“They’re sedinium, Doctor Bashir… I know because Jake and I were here. Those walls are solid to even a strong detonative force… We learned that the hard way when trying to mine. We were trying to start an operation but we couldn’t get the capital together for the transport or even the miners that we would have needed. It would have been very profitable if we-“

“Alright, alright, bugger the profit, so there’s a massive sinkhole at the top a ways out and we’ve got to trek through God only knows what when I’m sure the debris has washed over, the storms, God, it could be buried under there a thousand years for all you know! It’s already been a few years, why _why_ didn’t you tell me any of this?!” _Yes! Exactly!_ Garak takes this all in, almost reaching Julian’s level of excitement though for an entirely different reason. _Yes, leave it! No one’s going to find It, it’s buried so deep it’s likely rotting next to the Ancients as they say. Let’s go home! Surely we can find other mischief to get ourselves into that doesn’t involve moving through these catacombs like voles._

“I ran a scan. I managed to acquire the pieces to assemble a rudimentary scanner during one of the open windows before it shorted. I had Dory work up the map. She ah…” Nog swallows, trying to pointedly ignore the silent woman hovering around. “Her cartography skills were second to none.”

“I’m not dead, Nog,” she protests quietly.

“You are to me,” he answers in an overly dramatic fashion _. Likely a bad habit picked up from living amongst so many humans._   “But I have the map that we pulsed out before the power went. It’s a scan of the entire layout, you can see every tunnel from our viewpoint here down to the river running beneath the ground.

Garak doesn’t particularly want to glance at the artist’s rendering of the mouth of ll but curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself peering at the impressively drawn map of the tunnels. He also makes a note of the scale, seeing the tunnels are for the most part far wider than what he’d expect. From the looks of it they’ll need to traverse down a few levels and he wonders how they might accomplish this feat without any specialized equipment. Especially considering that Julian did not anticipate such a journey. Garak makes sure to commit that map to memory having a sinking feeling that he might have need of it later. He sighs, taking a step back. Perhaps he should’ve let the two operatives finish him off in the desert if this is the way things are going to go. _Yes, far better to go out with a shred of dignity- a quick bullet to the head. Not a blubbering wreck buried beneath five tons of a collapsed tunnel._

“There’s just one thing, Doctor,” Nog says looking distinctly uncomfortable as his eyes dart furtively between Julian and Garak. Garak isn’t sure why, but he has a sudden sense of impending doom. Julian looks up, already unshouldering his bag looking for what Garak hopes will be some sort of light.

“The Kironide, as far you know it’s non reactive, right?”

“Yes, but it’s highly flammable.”

“What about firedamp?”

“it’s safe. That’s one of the first things that Jake and I scouted.

“Your sure?”

“I would never lie about a past business venture, Doctor Bashir. Nog sounds almost offended.

“The oil lamps then,” Julian murmurs and Garak thinks, as he takes out the two small metal casings surrounding the clear glass, that it must be some terribly dense substance to not have cracked from the fighting.

Garak sees Julian retrieve a skin filling them both. “Thought we might need these. I had aether lights in case there was a risk of firedamp but it’s far better not to use those unless it’s an emergency.” He sighs. “Dare I ask what this one thing is?” Garak watches Julian preparing the lanterns not particularly  looking forward to skulking around with such potentially volatile light. Aether might be subject to the damp fire or whatever Julian was talking about but he’s seen firsthand living in Indigo that it can be far more destructive. Leeta insists on the ambiance, but after the accident at Quark’s last month following that altercation between Klingons… Garak decides to bring the picture of the map to mind as a distraction, determined to make sure the n thing is memorized before he sets foot near that opening. He intends to stick to Julian like newly grown scales, but he could almost see himself being left behind “accidentally” as a matter of convenience. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in his life such an events has occurred.

“I can’t go in,” he hears Nog say and his first thought is that by the State and everything just, that Ferengi is going in there if he has to sling him over his shoulder kicking and screaming. Nog looks distinctly uneasy. “This was supposed to be Jake and I doing this. Actually it was going to be the three of us,” he continues firing a disgruntled look at Collins, seated on the ground cross legged staring quietly at the rocks. “And Jake and Dory knew what we had to do… they were prepared to do this without me.” He swallows hard. “There’s a… field of effect. There’s a range. It’s not radioactive, it’s not dangerous… not to humans but… its properties… the range of effect even in the containers I can’t…” He clearly doesn’t want to divulge the nature of the substance’s effect and Garak is feeing just sadistic enough to not let him get by with it.

“I can only imagine,” Garak chimes in with as much honeyed mock sympathy as he can muster “the effect that such a volatile substance must have for it to so easily fell a race as noble and brave as the Ferengi. Why surely, the very sight of it must conjure some nightmare creature beyond one’s imagining. Does it perhaps cause you to hallucinate a bevy of fully clothed women making off with your vast fortune and burning it in a grand conflagration?”

“Garak,”Julian warns, and if he’s not careful he’s going to be next.

“Watch your tongue, Cardassian!” Nog snaps at him angrily. “You’re only here because you couldn’t keep out of other people’s business. I don’t even understand why you’re _still_ here.”

“Some might say because no one’s killed me yet,” Garak replies breezily. “Other perhaps might suggest that my presence is the cumulative result of a lifetime of inability to leave well enough alone but as for me, I’d like to think it’s because I’ve grown fond of such charming company.” Julian’s response is to practically throw the lamp at him without looking. Garak takes it with a grin tight enough to keep him from retching right there at the thought of going inside. It’s also going to be _cold_ , he realizes dismally. Garak coughs delicately as he tries to hand the lantern back. “Of course it might be best were the rest of us to remain out here and keep a look out for any unwanted company…” Julian shoves the lamp back at him.

“Oh no. if you think for one second, I’m letting you out of my sight when we’re this close to the Kironide, you’re not just a sneak but a madman as well.”

“Sneak!?” Garak draws himself up with an affronted sniff. “Really, Julian, of all the offensive descriptors you might have used…”

“You’re coming with me,” Julian reiterates, wiping the dirt off his hands onto his pant legs. “Who knows, I might just need your expertise on color patterns.” His grin is far too smart and Garak sighs as he examines the lamp.

“You know it’s going to be _cold_ ,” he remarks glaring at the flickering faint light. Julian for his part simply looks smugly ahead as he readjusts the pack on his back.

“Yes, I suppose it will be.” He looks at Nog. “I’d feel better with you guiding us, but I trust you can hold the entrance secure.” He shoots a sidelong glance to Collins. “Unless you think it might be better after all for Garak to remain here…” _Yes, it would be_ _much_ _better if Garak remains here. It would be much better if you just lobbed the explosives over the top and pray they blow the entire thing out._

“I’ve got it,” Nog answers with a shake of his head. “The others are still coming here to meet up with us. I don’t think that Yoshi would be held so far out that they couldn’t make up the time. If they double back to the Piranha then two could even make it here more quickly. We can… we can talk about everything after that,” he finishes looking down. Collins sits up a little straighter looking as if she might say something but sits back again.

Garak supposes that settles it and he marches on gamely.

“Well then, let’s not, what’s the expression, continue burning daylight.” He hides his growing unease behind a smile. “I shall endeavor to leave my life in your hands, my dear. I’m sure you’ll take good care with it.” He can see a faint shadow flicker across Julian’s face at that lighthearted remark, a shadow on his entire life if Garak were to cache it in more dramatic terms. To date he’s never been able to get any details from Julian or even Jadzia on the matter of his multitude of ill fated liaisons. Still, that reminder, a brief touch to Julian’s shoulder that follows is a carefully planted manipulation and he can see the distrust, the paranoia warring with what Garak has already determined to be Julian’s deeply ingrained instinct to protect.

“Of course I will,” Julian says softly. He clears his throat, taking the lead around the rocky overhang, dripping ice cold water off the lip and around the sides. The opening, much to Garak’s relief is larger than it appeared when viewed from a distance set against the face of the massive wall. Even so, he can feel the blood in his veins freezing over just thinking about it.

“Look on the bright side, Garak,” Julian offers as he takes his first tentative step into that seemingly endless tunnel, “At least a little chill is the worst you can expect from this point on.” He takes the lead with a hearty clap to Garak’s back unaware of how close he’s just come to an irritated knife in the kidney. _Oh what’s the point, Elim? The damned augment would probably just dodge it anyway._ Squaring his shoulders, Garak follows, far too experienced to be lulled into a false comfort with such pithy nonsense. _This is the worst that can happen? I’ll believe it when I see it._


	41. Red Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak and Julian venture deep into the caves, but Garak is beginning to feel that something is horribly amiss. But what's really going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man have I been looking forward to this. That's probably also why it ran longer than any other chapter haha. I keep thinking of Jack Nicholson in the Shining when he finally goes off the deep end. Anyway, enough of the spoilers though I will give a warning for total mental instability and murderous intent. Stay tuned for the continuation next week cause it's gonna be a doozy. Thank you everyone for reading and your support! C&C is also always welcome!

It starts with a blurring of his vision. Garak initially attributes that faint blurring of vision to a residual effect of his eye usage while they were still in indigo. It’s been several decades since he’s  used that trick without the aid of the implant to temper the after effects. Perhaps he should have taken Six’s advice and worked much harder to strengthen that talent and those muscles. _Every advantage, yes every advantage. You see where all those books ended him.._. He had to have Julian stop once already, the light bouncing off those missive stalactites hardly helping the situation, the shadows cast along the walls combined with some of the stalagmites below making the walls appear like the gaping maw of some prehistoric nightmare creature. But actually that jarring effect helps with his claustrophobia. The fallen debris, however, does not. There are plenty of broken pieces of stone and rock forcing their journey to be a slow progression. Garak hasn’t caught sight of any alleged sedinium but he imagines it’s further down near the drop site. There is, or should he say was a narrow path worn away and haphazardly chiseled, but the residual effects of the drops have neatly rattled away enough of the ceiling and walls to be vexing. Garak has been rather fervently hoping at any moment they find the way impassably blocked. Much to his chagrin the only blocked passage so far has necessitated an aggravating detour but not a halt altogether.

Garak has also noticed- with a faint skin crawl- that the numerous white eyeless bugs feel the light of the lantern- skittering off in various directions in veritable terror. From the looks of it, the appear to feed on the faint traces of colored mosses growing from where the moisture penetrates the deepest. The moss, of course, is also slippery and it’s come off a slimy goo to his hand the few times he’s tried to brace himself for balance. Julian, naturally, is appallingly agile as he easily traverses the treacherous path with aplomb, reveling in Garak’s clear misery as he regales him with the finer points of Westworld mosses. Nonetheless, Garak listens. He’d be a fool not to when Julian has such a wealth of medical knowledge that he might find useful later. Though Julian is quick to point out that Keiko would be far more at home and it may warrant a brief forestall of their departure should she decide to take some samples back for further study. That’s fine by him as long as he gets the privilege of being back on the ship lounging on the shady deck with a book and a glass of tea.

“And you see this is how I know you’re not a true snake, Garak,” Julian continues sounding amused as Garak shivers with another woozy step. “I’d imagine a snake would be right at home in a hole like this.”

“I’m so terribly sorry to disappoint your expectations,” Garak remarks not sounding particularly sorry as he feels the squish beneath his boot of a rather large bulbous million legged worm. Not to say that he’s any true fear of insects- one could not be a gardener on Romulus of any substance while being too terrified to tangle with the rather nasty and large pinching bugs known to infest the popular Greedovore plants. But given a choice, he'd gladly take a nice happy assignment on Empok Nor cleaning up after another one of Legate Corat's infamous soirees. "As you're well aware my dear, we lizards do covet our nice warm basking rocks." He carefully steps around another fallen mass of rock, Julian not immediately responding. He wonders if that's the end of that line of conversation when he sees the back of Julian's head tip back, and he can imagine the thoughtful absent expression towards the ceiling.

"Have you ever heard of "Hodgkins Law of Parallel Planet Development?"

"I can't say that I have."

"It's quite fascinating, really. Hodgkins was a biologist who postulated that logically planets with similar conditions, with twin biological compositions, elements, would yield genetically identical species. Actually he even took it a step further than that and also theorized that it could be applied to sociological aspects amongst sentient beings as well. I myself tend to believe that accounts for a lot of the reproductive compatibility between those of us with different outward physiology, differences in muscle composition, different blood oxygen levels, what have you. That is what I’ve always found logical anyway for those who don't ascribe to the one creator, one great progenitor mumbo jumbo." Julian waves his hand around mystically which makes Garak crack a smile.

"I take it you don't ascribe to any of that... talk of a greater power."

"The Q perhaps... and don't get me started on that..." Julian sighs and stops as the cave forks off into three different directions. "All I'm getting at is... you know there's a colorful little reptile... a frilled lizard is what it's called on Earth and yet if you ever travel south to Nyissa, the jungle is crawling with them. Completely identical. You could easily transplant one right off Earth and he wouldn't think anything of it… Well, perhaps until he saw some of the native predators. They don’t have bwaks on Earth, after all." Julian turns to him with a little smirk, that light illuminating the green eyeshine of his irises beautifully.

"You rather remind me of one, one of those little frilled lizards," Julian says with a chuckle. "They have this fringe, you see," He says drawing a circle around his neck. "like this but it usually lays down flush to the body. Until of course you startle one," Julian observes as he allows Garak to step past and peer down each of the tunnels. The first veers off sharply to the right, and if Garak recalls is going in the completely wrong direction that they need. The center seems innocuous enough, going straight back, though his own recollection combined with Julian’s poorly concealed amusement lead him immediately to the right. Naturally that has the steep slope downward and he can see a rather dubious rope looped carelessly around a rock formation to assist with that grade.

“Surely there’s another way to go around,” Garak protests, feeling the pit drop out of his stomach even as he searches his own memory finding nothing useful. Julian chuckles, coming to stand next to him as he too peers down.

“I’m just imagining it sticking straight up,” Julian says with a laugh. “That indignant fringe.” He walks past Garak and begins an examination of the rope. Garak feels a strange irrational urge to shove him down backwards before shaking it off.

“Nog assured me that the carbon nanofibers should have held, shouldn’t have deteriorated but you never know who might come looking around with as much time that’s passed.” Garak wonders how anyone could even begin to entertain the notion of a business enterprise in such a _cold_ miserable landscape as he resists the urge to lean against another moss covered wall. The orange, Julian said can irritate the skin with prolonged contact. It doesn’t seem to bother the little mites feasting on it though. _Yes, of course Nog would be at home here. Potential wealth and an unending supply of food, what more could an enterprising little Ferengi ask for?_ Garak snorts but just as suddenly sees another blur cross his eyes. He tries to focus, but finds that the harder he tries the more it alludes him. He blinks, rubbing at his right eye hoping that it might clear the issue but instead it only makes it worse. He thinks that there’s some double vision. Holding the lamp higher makes that bright light start to swim. He shuts his eyes not seeing anywhere in the small room that he can set down safely.

“Garak?” Julian asks concerned from his right. He hears another noise but all he can make out is a flashing ring in his vision, bright but blocking out half of everything that he’s seeing.

“My apologies Julian, I just need a moment. Of course I’m aware time is of the essence…” He trails off, shutting his eyes immediately feeling that loss of equilibrium as he does. He feels Julian steadying head, taking hold of his elbow, a hand around his back.

“There really shouldn’t be any residual effects from earlier. I examined you on the ship when I removed the patch… Please tell me you’re just putting me on so you don’t have to go down there.”

“Ah, you’ve found me out, Julian. Such cunning, such brilliance, I can see the full culmination of that neural pathway acceleration hard as work.” He isn’t sure why he snaps so caustically. It was an odd sensation that seized him just then. Garak opens his eyes almost painfully as he can see that flashing blurring around Julian’s face, his eyes warping that to six of him. Garak clutches at Julian’s shoulder. “I really don’t know what came over me,” he confesses, and can see faintly that Julian frowns. He examines his eyes as best as he can in the darkness not looking particularly satisfied.

“I can see a slight dilation in your pupils but honestly that could very likely be the low light. The right seems a bit red, just a little pink, but again I think that’s a residual from your earlier strain…” Julian sighs. “All kidding aside, I’d feel more comfortable if you stayed with me but if you don’t think that you’ll be able to make it…”

“Oh no,” Garak interjects hastily, grabbing Julian’s wrist. Julian has a slender wrist but not delicate no, not the augment. Garak might be holding it a bit too tightly before letting go. “You would do well not to underestimate me,” he says in a low voice that’s far darker and less buoyed than his usual tone. That troubles him, but he supposes it’s the proximity of the walls, that dark, that cold that’s making him testy. He blinks a few more times find that focus not coming but at least seeing the ring shrink, a few other artifacts clouding his vision as he does. “I’ll be fine,” Garak assures him letting go of his wrist. He stares at his own hand a moment while Julian looks at him uncertainly.

“Right well, I hope you’ll tell me if we need to stop. I appreciate a stiff upper lip as well as the next fellow but as a doctor I certainly can’t condone needlessly risking your health.” He ducks away, likely before too much concern comes to the forefront, and Garak just shuts his eyes and listens as he maneuvers carefully with the rope down that steep incline. _Really, the nerve of that human to presume to tell me my own capabilities._ He feels that irrational pique again, that irritation growing as he waits for Julian to reach the end. _I don’t need you, human. You’ve been a pleasant distraction, you’ve been an adequate bed warmer but your simpering pity is misplaced. Save it for the Ferengi waiting outside with his bleating human whore. They’re the ones that need your help not me. I could complete this on my own. I assure you that I’m more than capable of blowing up a few cargo containers. You should be as well. You’re an augment, isn’t that right? You’re strong, superior, there’s no need for you to have me here when I was all too willing to give you the keys. Unless that’s your plan. Is that your plan to dispose of me here? An accident? Is that what you arranged?_

Garak blinks a few times as he hears Julian’s voice calling to him to come down. He looks down that way suspiciously, clutching the lantern tighter in his grip. _You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The closer we get, the deeper down, the longer you keep me buried in this tomb the more of an advantage you believe you’ll gain. Clever Julian, very clever, but I haven’t survived all these years by being overly trusting and naive. I made sure to bring the higher dosage of the sedative with me this time, my dear. That last one was just a test but I know exactly what I’ll need now._ He carefully moves into position, not relying on his vision so much as feel, on his other senses for orientation to lower himself down. Garak isn’t certain how Julian expected a normal man to manage this one handed. If he tries to link the lantern to his trousers he’s not sure if the light will go out or worse. _But then again, that was likely his plan. Leave you in the dark, leave you at a disadvantage. Ah but he won’t finish you here, he’ll surely do it closer to the Kironide. A convenient accident. Yes, the Ferengi had shown up before he could execute you earlier so he had to wait. Clever human, very clever indeed._

There’s a definite strain on his arm as he moves and he definitely is tempted to move faster down that steep slope. The rubber soles provide adequate footing and he can see around him the uneven terrain would keep a slide from being too likely but he’s not going to take the risk. He measure perhaps some fifteen meters total between what he can see from the midpoint he’s reached. The ground beneath him is cool but not so slick that he could slide down easily. He actually sees some faintly carved rudimentary handholds that have to be man made.He has a brief afterthought, a small flicker that he’d soil his clothing further as well, but that remains more of a distant dream. _Really, worry about something so insignificant_. What he also finds, as he reaches the bottom and straightens himself up is that his vision is starting to improve. That’s curious. The last time he had any sort of eye focus issue it only deteriorated until he was past the point of being able to function. That's promising. He's already at a disadvantage down here in the cold against the augment. _But you think you know my weaknesses, don't you?_ Yes, he can still feign that disability, use that compassion against him. _Certainly that compassion is fleeting like the wind but you only need a small window, you only need to get close enough to stick it in him._

“Garak?” He refocuses on Julian, careful not to look at him too closely, a hand over his eyes with a deep breath.

“I’m fine. I just need a moment. I’m sure I’m slowing you down…”

“No it’s fine,” Julian says that far too quickly. Surely he doesn’t think Garak hasn’t seen through him.

“Are we… close?” Garak asks, having already done his own calculations. And as he suspected, when Julian lets him know that it won’t be much longer, he was factoring the elevation in the distance.

“Yes very much so actually,” Julian assures him. “But stay behind me. I don’t know what might be up ahead. To hear Quark talk about his cousin’s sealed containers a plasma rocket couldn’t pierce one, but you know how Ferengi talk. There could be Kironide spilled out like sand from a broken hourglass and I’m not sure of the properties- it’s ingestible but there could be fine particles from an explosion and Nog’s been just so damn secretive about anything except the need for its destruction…”

Julian starts walking as Garak ponders that, starting to feel warmer as they walk an increasingly narrow tunnel. That very well may be what Juilan was speaking of. Well, that suits him just fine. Better warm than cold and with his eyes clearing up completely he’s starting to feel much better. In fact he’s felt better than he has in some time- far more clearheaded, lucid. That clarity is almost maddening itself as he realizes with frightening calm that Julian is definitely luring him to a trap. _And oh what an elaborate setup, what a depth of planning, of careful machination on his part. But it makes sense now doesn’t it, Elim? All of it from the very beginning. He was in on it the entire time from the moment he met you. He must have marked you. He must have been contacted by one of them. Yes, you know exactly who it was who sent those two in the desert, who surely set the bounty. It had to be Dukat. That’s the only explanation. He must have grown more cunning these past few years. Oh you cannot put anything past him Elim, you know that, know after what he did to his own daughter…_

And it’s that thought which leads to the next cold sobering realization. _Then Julian must be in on it as well! Of course, how could you not have seen it? As soon as he saw you he was studying you, he was watching you. Surely he left that journal for you to find, left you that puzzle. Him, Jadzia, none of them are truly Starfleet, they’re exiles, they’re mercenaries, they’re guns for hire. And you fell for it didn’t you, you old fool? He’s probably been shtupping Dukat the entire time. He’s been laughing behind your back, him and the Trill. Oh but they’re not going to have the last laugh. They’re not going to be the ones laughing when you’re finished with them. You’re going to win this and they’re all going to pay for underestimating you._ Garak feels his pulse speed up, an odd feeling of excitement as he increases his pace, nearly walking into Julian knowing that they’re close. He can see a lot large fallen rocks, he can see the passage narrow to where it seems impassable but he watches as Julian studies it. He calms his breathing, not letting that anticipation get the better of him.

“I’m afraid of the stability here,” Julian says with a frown. “They’ll be set charges of course and mainly they’ll just set the whole mess up in flames but still… We’re terribly under equipped for this.” Julian sighs, and Garak watches that neck, thinking how easily it would be to crush his windpipe. _Could you stop me? If you’re not expecting it… if I do it from behind? You wouldn’t even see it coming, you wouldn’t suspect anything. Arrogant augment. You can’t stop a bullet. If I blow your brains into the wall… no… that would be beneath me. There may not be anything beneath you, it may not be beneath a human to whore himself out for profit, No, I’ll leave you here beneath this rock, with your fire and your Kironide. Yes. Yes, you can certainly contemplate the direction that your life has taken to have brought you to this point as you’re consumed by the flames down here. Was crossing me worth it, Julian? Was it worth laughing at me while you kneel in front of Dukat and-_

“Garak?” He hasn’t even realized that he’s missed Julian talking, the noise outside of his own stream of conscious a blur. He realizes that his hand had moved, discreetly fingers the pocket of his trousers. He lets that arm drop carefully. “Are you _sure_ you’re feeling okay? I was going to suggest you wait here, but perhaps we ought to go back after all. The odds are quite in our favor that the erm… you know they’ve been contained they ah… won’t be pressing us so-“

“Perish the thought!” Garak exclaims clearing his throat as he holds back that strange feeling of aggressive elation. “no, not when we’re so close, we cannot turn back now, you cannot possibly think of quitting, no no we need to do this. Now. You have my assurances I’ll be here. I’ll be coming for you… I have you,” Garak promises, finding it just so strangely hard to contain that spillover of emotion. Julian seems to sense it as well looking at him strangely before dropping his eyes.

“Right… of course well… you know I plan to give you a thorough examination when we’re back on the ship. I’m not sure I believe that you’re a hundred percent you know. Now we may need to move quickly but I’ll give us enough of a start. I won’t have the benefit of the devices they use off world but I think I can manage with a little Westworld ingenuity.” Julian laughs softly, turning around and Garak finds that chuckle to suddenly frightening aggravating. He can feel his hand curl to a fist at his side, his grip on the lantern tightening until it starts to shake. He watches Julian disappear again feeling that wash of thoughts, that heat that makes him feel as if he ought to just take off, as if nothing will cool his body temperature. He doesn’t sweat much, but he can feel that rise as he does his own mental calculations for the distance and then carefully readies the syringe. _Not the sedative, Elim. No, you should use the muscle relaxer instead, the one you prepared just in case. You haven’t tested it as well but does it matter if you overdose him? He’s going to die. They all are. And they’re all going to know if was you and just how foolish they were to think they could ever double cross you._

_Cunning, treachery is a skill  like any other and those who fail, oh, that is a learning experience indeed. A pity you won’t live to correct your mistake, human. Perhaps I might decide to torture you instead. Yes. That’s it. I won’t kill you right off. I need to determine, after all just what you know and what better way down here, in the dark, in the quiet, to conduct a proper investigation. Where else can I make you scream your throat raw without interference, without limit, without anything coming between us?_ But just in case he’s going to need to get that length of rope. Garak sets the lantern down and much more quickly makes that ascent back up the slope. He’s confident in his ability to scale back up now that he knows what he’s dealing with and with Julian out of the way there won’t be any rush. He examines the knot before untying it then carefully scaling backwards back down, only slipping on his knees once, feeling far more capable than he’d given himself credit for.

                _Yes, it will definitely be the muscle relaxers,_ Garak decides as coils that length of rope around one arm. _That will be the most… satisfying._ He’ll have to take pains with his approach and lose the rope before he comes into range of sight, but he knows Julian won’t turn back around from his approach alone. He knows it’s only the two of them here and more’s the better for him. _It’s not sisal after all, it’s carbon nanofiber._ _A Vulcan couldn’t break it._ Garak can feel his heart begin to race as he hurries through that narrow passage where Julian disappeared through that pile of rock. He doesn’t waste any unnecessary time on stealth. In the time that it’s taken Julian likely gotten good start no him not going slow for the sake of the poor old Cardassian. And Julian will hear him coming when he’s close enough. He won’t be alarmed. Right now he may be confused by Garak’s behavior but his guard won’t be up. _No, he won’t realize yet that you’ve seen through his deception. He’ll still think that he’s leading you along, that he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’ll let you come as close as you need to._ That elation makes him steady, surefooted as he practically dances across the floor of the long curving tunnel, feeling that cold slick rock start to faintly crunch. As he looks down he can see the faint sprinkle of red dust, damp, but not slick like mud, the granules still separate, not having absorbed the water. It would seem that Julian’s assessment was correct.

The passage narrows again, Garak wondering just how fast Julian was possibly moving. _Or maybe he’s on to you, Elim. Maybe he knows what you’re planning. He’s no fool, surely Dukat let him know everything about you. He likely knows or at least thinks he knows more about you than you him. Oh, you are a clever little augment, aren’t you?_ Garak slows his pace, wary cautious, but also curious as he sees the narrow of that tunnel ahead start to expand, a light visible, illuminating what he can immediately see is a massive cave, the walls a mosaic of rock and ore, clearly the sedinium. It comes upon him rather suddenly, that fine grit increasing until it’s all that he walks over, that dust beneath the soles of his boots piling up until it’s like walking on gritty sandy leading to a massive storage container cracked clear in half like a regova egg. Garak carefully sets the coil of rope down in that sand as quietly and carefully as he can manage. The red dust is everywhere, and Garak is wary of breathing in too deeply, that taste on his tongue faintly metallic but also strangely salty. He cannot help but flick his tongue out again knowing that to ingest any may very well prove unwise depending on how it may affect Cardassians.

He can see, as he approaches, that Julian is already carefully laying a thin wire around the perimeter of the second crate, similarly cracked open. Garak studies Julian carefully, curious as to the makeup of that wire, wondering how it might possibly work. Julian seems perfectly content to ignore him and as much as he wants to rush in quickly, he also wants to watch, to savor that moment, feeling that buildup of excitement as he steps closer through that beautifully glittering red dust. _Perhaps you might ingest some. It gives telekinetic abilities does it not? Maybe he’s already ingested some, hadn’t you thought of that you fool! He could be lying in wait, ready to attack, to throw you to the ceiling without so much as laying a hand on you. Who’s to say that the accelerated neural pathways might not accelerate what he’s able to do as well. This entire thing might have been a rouse. He could be setting up as we speak to kill you and bring this to Dukat! To Tain even- what if it’s Tain after all working from the shadows, manipulating calculating._ _He_ _could’ve set this entire thing up. He could be testing you. He could be erasing his favorite mistake with one swoop and securing this invaluable element for himself! Is that is human whore? Is it Tain that you’re spreading your legs for and then turn around and-_

“They call this the ballroom,” Julian informs, interrupting his wildly spiraling thoughts.  Julian continues that crouching side walk seeming to pay him little mind when he doesn’t immediately respond.“The formation was worn out by years of erosion, there was a river that ran above here though it likely dried up. There’s still water. On the other side it goes down to a river and I can only pray this dust hasn’t scattered that far.” _I thought you didn’t know anything about these caves, Julian. I knew it! I knew this was a trap. Oh, you are a sneaky one, aren’t you?_  Garak stalks closer to him licking his lips, feeling some ancient buried predator’s instinct bubbling back up to the surface as he does so. “Of course the entry into the atmosphere likely weakened the stability of the structure. _I_ could’ve told him that and I’m not even a bloody engineer. A few supplementary courses at the Academy and even _I_ know that much.”

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer, and Garak doesn’t even spare a glance for his surroundings as he holds the lantern up higher, careful to avoid looking at it himself. He’s going to use that eyesight against him. He’s going to use everything against him. He’s so close that he can taste Julian in the air, taste that clove, that tincture. _Perhaps I’ll taste your skin again, my dear. Once more for posterity- for memories. I’ll taste it before I break it. Before I break you._ That excitement grows as he’s so close, that lantern making Julian bright, light marrying to the lantern set on the ground to Julian’s other side as he moves. Julian continues that steady crawl having circled half the crate with that dark wire.

“Luckily I just need to start the fire. The rest will catch but I really wish you hadn’t stepped in it. You’re putting yourself at greater risk and I’m not sure we’ll be able to clear in time. In fact we might make for the river on the other side of the ballroom but that’s not without its own risks.” Julian pauses just then, Garak right there casting his shadow across, stopping right in Julian’s path looking down at him crouched, vulnerable, taking just a moment to savor that power. _Soon, so soon, keep talking, keep telling yourself everything is going to be alright, my dear._

“Garak?” Julian’s voice is curious, concerned but not with any sensible concern for his own safety. Rather for that cloying doctor concern and it’s enough for that red to fill the rest of his vision, a veritable wash of blood over his eyes as Julian finally seems to register something amiss. Garak holds the lantern high as he sinks to his knees as well, Julian’s arm coming up to shield his eyes, struggling to adjust with that brightness. Garak sees those eyes widen as he looks in his eyes, that horror seeming to dawn beautifully enough that Garak nearly everts himself with ecstasy. “My God Garak your eyes are-“

                And that’s when Garak stabs him.


	42. Law of the Lash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian comes to and finds himself in a terrifying situation! Is there any way to get through to Garak before it's too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll skip the rambling and keep this one pretty short since the warning is important. WARNING!! This chapter prominently features torture! If that's going to be upsetting or you really just don't want to read it then wait til next week and I'll provide a brief summary for anything that may be missed! Thank you all for reading and C&C is always welcome!

_Julian Subatoi Bashir, you are a complete imbecile._ That’s Julian’s first thought as he blinks his eyes open feeling groggy and rather like Molly just landed the _Godokoro_ right on his head. He also feels faintly nauseous, he assumes from the sedative Garak had given him. _Well, Julian, bravo, it seems that he took your advice about the proper dosing accounting for your accelerated metabolism jolly good one there._ What he also notices more prominently is the bad taste in the back of his mouth and the fact that he can’t seem to see quite clearly. He tries to crack his jaw, neck feeling a definite crick in it and notices how difficult it is to get any of his muscles to respond. _Dantrolene? No, that would have to be given orally. It would have to be Azumolene?! Where would he have gotten that? Is that something he’s gotten here on world? That’s not something I keep with me, it would’ve had to have come from the north if not off world_. _How would he even know the dosage? God he could’ve killed you? I’m not even sure how fast my liver can metabolize it depending on the dosage. It could be hours before I can move in any decent manner._  

Already beginning to feel more uneasy than before, Julian can at least see the faint twin light of the lanterns still burning giving him some indication of the time. He’s thankful that they only appear to be halfway diminished. He hasn’t been out nearly as long as he feared. But that also means far less time for his body to have metabolized the drugs. And what he doesn’t immediately see is Garak, which is also a terribly worrying thought. _You should’ve known there was something wrong about him. He was behaving strangely, he kept looking at you like he wanted to murder you right about the time you hit that divergence in the tunnels. God_ _dammit_ _, you should’ve made absolutely certain that you got an answer out of Nog. I’ll wager anything it’s some sort of hallucinatory effect. You’ve read in the reports that the telekinetic effects immensely tax the brain, can cause hemorrhaging in fact if one isn’t careful. It affects the brain, the perceptions most likely, you should’ve_ _known_ _the possibility of breathing it in, inhaling it could have the potential to-_

Oh to what, Julian? To make a perfectly sane man go completely murderously mad? Sure, why not, it would hardly begin to touch the strange things you’ve encountered so far, why not? You ought to be thankful at this point that he hasn’t skinned you alive and worn you as a coat. Julian snorts, as macabre as that image is, there’s a faintly amusing thought of Garak trying to pull Julian’s slim, scrawny skin over his stocky frame. _A bag then. Yes, it’ll have to be a bag._ He snorts again, thinking that he’s starting to sound like a horse, taking stock of exactly where he is. Julian can see that he’s still in the ballroom; those lanterns where they’d been left. But his bag has been moved he is already frantically recalling everything that was in it. The fuse charge- the wire that was meant to spread a long flame as it burned was where it had begun however Julian had several dozen meters as a precaution and there’s no telling what Garak could have possibly been doing. _But the wire doesn’t explode. Really, it’s purposed very specifically. You’ve got your first aid supplies, but Garak seems to have covered his bases with the sedative and whatever paralytic he’s also injected me with and…_

And I’ve got no bloody clothes on. Julian has to blink a few times before that fully sets in. He sees his clothes neatly folded in fact just out of his reach boots and socks stacked on top along with his necklace and watch. He swallows hard, feeling the cold, feeling the heaviness in his head that makes even turning his neck a struggle. He yawns, knowing that it will still be some time before he’ll have his full capabilities, but even so… _Even so, he seems to have this rather neatly sewn up, so to speak._ Julian can feel the ropes tying his wrists together, keeping his arms neatly out of commission while exposing his chest and his stomach. He expects to see his legs similarly bound- there was enough of that rope remaining that he could’ve easily been cocooned like a caterpillar should Garak have so desired. _But that’s not what he wanted, obviously, he’s after God only knows what and you better figure out just what exactly that is._

Because his legs are _not_ bound in the most logical way to restrict movement, at least not in the way Julian would imagine. As he looks down, he can see the bar elaborately tied at his knees- it’s hard to tell since it seems to have been completely encased in a wind of the long slim rope. The result however is that his legs are spread apart, leaving him horribly exposed. He has a fleeting instinct and finds even a small attempt to draw his legs together results in a sharp painful stick to the inside of his knee, likely the result of the piece of container being broken or blown apart to that length. _Well isn’t that just ducky…_ Julian exhales sharply half considering rolling over then blanching as he realizes just exactly how that would leave him looking even if he _could_ manage such a feat. He considers the Kironide, of course. He would be a fool not to. As loathe as he would be to possibly poison himself due to ingestion, it might in fact allow him the ability to free himself without the use of his hands. The dust is everywhere, after all and depending on how desperate the situation gets it might just warrant-

“I’ve heard you humans say that patience is a virtue,” he hears Garak’s voice slither through the cold air coiling a chill around him, sounding far darker than he’s ever heard him sound before. “But I’ve often found in my life virtues to be little more than platitudes- pithy sayings to keep the masses in line- especially Bajorans.” Julian watches Garak step forward, his eyes still with that red sclera, concerning him that he may be experiencing some hemorrhagic fever or possibly worse. _Of course it has to be the Kironide. Pray it’s only blood vessels but still, if there’s any alteration to the integrity of the cells he could very well be in quite a great deal of danger if the cell membranes are-_ “Would you say that you’re a virtuous man, Doctor Bashir?” Garak asks him conversationally. Julian half expects to see some menacing weapon in his hands but instead is surprised to find Garak calmly walking in front of him examining the ropes. Julian hesitates, unsure if there’s supposed to be a right or wrong answer to that question. Garak is inscrutable at the best of times and he can’t even begin to imagine what thoughts could be running through his head at present.

Garak seems to read that indecision perfectly.

“Oh come now, doctor, after everything that you and I have shared together, there’s no need to be so reticent now is there?” He doesn’t quite glance to the juncture of Julian’s spread legs but somehow it seems that his eyes glance there. Julian winces as he instinctively moves to close his legs. “I can assure you there’s no right or wrong answer. No lies, no falsehoods that you need concern yourself with. One might even say that the greatest asset to our relationship is that it’s built upon one beautiful lie after another.” Garak, Julian notes, has found himself another long rebar- at least that’s how it appears- and he’s tracing patterns in that find Kironide grit beneath them both. He trails that point closer until it brushes the side of Julian’s foot. Julian’s breath hitches but aside from those few sluggish shifts as his muscles try and respond, he has little ability to move any of his limbs. He nearly holds his breath when that scrape lifts a little to his calf, leaving a faint streak of rest dust that vaguely resembles spots of blood on his skin.

“Garak-”

“I _do_ hope that you’ll spare us both the indignity of such cliché entreaties as telling me that I don’t know what I’m doing or begging me to untie you.” Julian’s eyes remain fixed on that tip as it moves to the juncture where the bar is bound between his knees.

“I suppose that would be rather pointless, wouldn’t it?” _Because clearly whatever is affecting him is not subject to any sort of reason or else he wouldn’t be in this position to begin with. He’s got a strong mind, and whatever is wrong it’s bridged to perfectly logical conclusions in his thought process no matter how irrational they may seem to anyone else. And given all that you’ve likely little chance to reason with him unless you can figure out what he’s thinking and why. Yes, brilliant, and while you’re at it, perhaps you might wrest the gun away from his grasp and save the day._

“I’m glad we understand each other, doctor.”

“Doctor? Are we back to all that now? I thought we’d at least become familiar enough with each other to drop the formalities.”

“Very good, Julian,” Garak praises him, drawing that point up the inside of his thigh, his control of the tension slipping just enough to allow it to scratch, to bite into that sensitive skin. Julian bites back any embarrassing sounds with a slow breath out, staring at the rock beside him, watching the pattern of the Sedinium peering through. “Yes, we _are_ on more familiar terms, more intimate terms. It’s always a wise strategy to appeal to that sentiment in a situation such as this one but I’m afraid that I have some bad news for you, Julian.” There a particularly nasty emphasis to his name that makes Julian sluggishly turn his head, still feeling it far too heavily rolling around  atop his neck.

“What are you talking about, Garak?”

“Oh the sincerity, Julian, I could almost believe you. Why don’t we try this.” Julian is tense. He can feel every muscle locked and in spite of his intellectualizing of the act, of the fact that it is nothing but a piece of metal brushing his penis he cannot seem to remember to keep breathing. “Is this the same intimacy that you shared with Dukat, my dear? Is that it?”

Julian freezes. _Dukat… Dukat… what the devil is a Dukat? Is that someone he knows? A human? A Cardassian? A bloody Romulan!? Dear God he_ _has_ _gone mad. You’re dead. You’re a damn dead man, Julian if he thinks somehow that you’ve-_

“God if I tell you I’ve never even heard of that person before you won’t even begin to believe me will you?” Julian rushes out feeling that rod start to trail painfully, digging in deeper, pulling a whimper from his throat as that delicate skin is scratched. Garak pulls it back and Julian can imagine a thin red line down. He feels that heat stinging sharp pulsing hot, surely bleeding out in a tickle contrasting that pain. He can’t squirm, and as locked tight as his muscles feel he can see that they’ve hardly responded.

“Now that, my dear, is the first rule of the business. Never believe what a customer tells you about his measurements. You see, he will always deceive, always try to trick what one’s eyes can clearly see. And that is where it’s up to the tailor to take a measure of a man… and see where the truth lies.”

“And what is it that your eyes can clearly see, Garak?” Julian asks affecting the best clinical doctor tone that he can. His voice cracks on Garak’s name. 

“I can see,” Garak expression seems unsteady though Julian is loathe to look too long. “I can see… that you’re afraid, Julian,” he says softly, his voice the reassuring whisper of a father to a frightened child and it makes Julian’s blood chill culminating with an involuntary shiver up his spine.

“I may have made my peace with my own mortality, but that doesn’t mean I fancy you slowly flaying the skin from my hide.”

“Now why ever would I do something so barbaric?” _Because you’ve gone completely king mad,_ is what’s on the tip of Julian’s tongue when Garak begins another slow drag of that sharp tip to the inside of his other thigh drawing perilously higher. He can’t manage more than a feeble twitch of his hands still as he tries to press harder back against the rock. “Ah, now there’s the artistry in the tailor’s craft, my dear. One need not expend unnecessary energy in creating the sketches if one can make that ignorant patron believe without a doubt in their mind that you have the ability, that you have the skill to bring every one of those promises to life.”

Julian can feel that point scratching his left testicle can feel it wind a lazy way back up again, that sharp shallow sting to his sac making him bit his lip, and try not to hyperventilate when Garak brings the point down.

“Why tell me that?” he asks, again, clinging to those words in desperation. “Why give away such a valuable psychological trick?” He watches that long length leading down between his legs, how Garak has come to let it lazily rest on the bar between his knees, turning that stylus slowly, idly, like an artist’s compass held fixed at one point while the other circles. He can feel it dipping down closer, not able to see where it ends, only feel that sharpness as it brushes the skin right before his hole. Julian’s jaw is tense and he can feel the sweat of his palms behind his back. _Dear God, Julian stop thinking about it he’s not going to.. he’s not going to do anything of that sort, didn’t he just tell you that you need to think! You need to stop focusing on that distraction, you need to let yourself process just… Stop! Thinking. About. It._

“Because it doesn’t matter if I tell you.” Julian shuts his eyes find that only makes it worse, that is only heightens the painful sensation that grows, blossoming out with each new scratch, each needle sharpsting. “It doesn’t matter what I tell you.” Garak is careful not to graze the same spot twice, careful to draw back, to let that fine point stick each time only a millimeter at most to his dick, to that quivering retracted shaft. “Just you as you know that my belief in your treachery, in your infidelity, is resolute, so do I know that your belief in my actions is equally unwavering.” He imagines the sight, a hundred sharp little red dots over the service as Garak expands that radius outward. “You believe, each time that I draw back, that I move further from your precious manhood that it’s only a break until I draw closer once more. And you would be correct.” When those pokes hit his thighs they go deeper, sharper, they twist just slightly until he finds himself struggling for breath. 

“I can tell by the way your stomach tenses with that sound of the rope, that you believe there follows a painful prick even when I don’t touch you. Julian hears the slide of the metal over the wound rope as it slides back and forth, every slide making the pit of his stomach feel about to drop out, in a hateful confirmation of that statement. “And you also believe, my dear Julian- and I can tell by your pallor, by your sweat, by the very smell of your _fear_ \- that any moment I’m going to take this little phallic substitution and ram it as _deep_ and as _hard_ as I can and... Have I ever told you that I once made a man confess his true... measurements merely by looking at him for four hours?”

Garak doesn’t yell, he doesn’t raise his voice but instead grows even quieter and Julian wonders, as he feels a nauseous tickle starting in the back of his throat down deep to his stomach if this may not just be some miserable hallucination that clawed its way to the surface from some sick part of his psyche.

“You know, Garak… the fundamental problem with torture as a means of interrogation is that the… subject I mean they’ve concluded scientifically… I don’t know _how_ they came to such conclusion or from where the studies originated since I can’t see the Federation okay maybe Section 31 but I still can’t see such a thing sanctioned today but they’ve concluded that a man or… or a woman of course, mustn’t forget women, will confess to anything, will admit to anything under torture in order to get the pain to stop and in fact ah… Garak?” He trails off seeing that Garak doesn’t seem to be particularly interested, in fact, Julian can see him having retreated back, idly going to Julian’s bag. There’s a heavy, almost overly dramatic sigh in response.

“I must say, while I find human curiosity and interest in moral and ethical arguments completely fascinating at times, there are others such as these where I cannot help but think them tedious.” Julian cannot see what he’s looking for specifically though he has an unsettling hunch.

Garak stands holding the wrap of instruments, selecting a scalpel.

“You seem to have a somewhat suspect familiarity with torture, doctor that I find refreshing for one in the medical profession, but do you understand the Cardassian legal system?” It seems an odd non sequitur. Garak takes a bottle of alcohol and cloth to sterilize the blade.

“I ah… can’t say that I have. Perhaps we could talk about it?”

“Oh we will,” Garak agrees. “Though I imagine you mean that suggestion far differently than my intent.” He finishes cleaning the scalpel neatly. “That is what we in the business would call a stall tactic, from your point of view.”

“The clothing industry?” Julian asks, eyes never leaving that blade.

“Of course.” Garak sounds almost affronted. “What else could I possibly mean?”

“I can’t... I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Now as I was saying, the Cardassian legal system is a work of art, for you see, where in say, your Federation one has this adversarial legal system, this messy trial of he said she said, evidence, preponderance of the evidence, all that extraneous nonsense, we on Cardassia are concerned with only one critical matter; justice.”

“Generally justice as I understand it does not involve torturing innocent… ha…tsss…” Julian feels the sharp bite of the blade across his skin as Garak, sitting comfortably, companionably beside him, leans forward and cuts into the top of his foot almost experimentally.

“Ah yes, the notion that the rights of one innocent hypothetical trump the integrity of the state as a vehicle of infallibility. It’s a wonder you don’t have complete anarchy. It’s such a pleasure to see a man who takes such good care of the instruments of his profession as you.” Julian doesn’t answer immediately, throat straining not to cry out again. Garak clucks his tongue in admonition as he watches the blood flow down Julian’s foot. “Oh don’t worry about offending my hearing with your screams, my dear, I assure you, I’m a consummate professional and have every ability to continue our delightful chat through your expressions of pain. It _does_ hurt doesn’t it?” Garak turns, looking at him curiously and Julian tries to jerk his head forward, deciding through that heat that he doesn’t care if Garak’s in his right mind or not he’s going to break his nose on his forehead.

He twitches faintly, another strangled cry escaping him as Garak returns his attention down.

“You’re enjoying this, God I swear you’re enjoying this even if you’ve gone mad as a bloody bag of frogs I don’t- gaa… haa… haa…” He nearly swallows his tongue, that blade curving elegantly around the bone of his ankle, stopping short of the back and he’s terrified that Garak may very well decide to cut that tendon.

“As I was saying, Julian, The State naturally must maintain its image as a pillar of justice and as you might imagine in that case everyone brought to trial is met with swift immediate punishment. Now…” Julian’s head tips back against the rock, harder than he would’ve thought, the thud dull, the pain seeming heightened for God only knows what reason as Garak crawls to the other foot. He pauses to allow Julian a few more pitiful guttural claws of sound from his throat. “Since you’ve kindly established for me, the folly of probing you further on the whys and the hows of your alliance with my greatest enemy, I don’t see any point in asking any unnecessary questions do you? I really have very little interest in hearing the details of your liasions.” There is a please caught on Julian’s lips, a frantic part of him wondering if he _does_ begin begging if there won’t be some merciful part of Garak that won’t snap to his senses and stop.

He can feel, as he tries to move his arms, to flex his fingers, that he has some functionality returning and he immediately stops, not daring to let Garak see that he can move anything yet. _God say something Julian, think of something anything that will make him stop. Does he want a confession? Or will a confession make him kill you? Does he want your screams your repentance, does he want you to apologize for letting this Dukat flavored whatever you behind his bloody back?! God I can’t... I don’t know I can’t..._

“I’m sorry,” He pushes out instead, not wanting to even look down at his feet and see the cross of all those slices marking him, marking his soles, stinging painful agony as his raw skin bleeds out onto the Kironide dusting the floor.

“Very good, Julian,” Garak purrs, setting his right foot back down drawing another painful whimper from him. “The right amount of contrition, yet admitting no fault, pitiful, pathetic, pleading, I do appreciate your tact.” Julian watches him warily, vision wet, fuzzy, and he can feel wetness on his face that he blinks away. “Say it again, my dear, make me believe it.” He doesn’t even sound pleased. He sounds detached, clinical, like Julian telling a patient they’ve got a cold. _Yes, take an aspirin and call me in the morning. Tell me you’re sorry, make me believe it, make sure you’re drinking plenty of fluids._ He swallows down a strange burble of laughter, that hitch in his voice seeming to be nothing more than another mark that Garak ticks off some mental list.

“I’m sorry.”

“Mmm, not quite, I think I need to know what you’re sorry for.”

“Everything.”

“No, that’s still not it.”

“I’m sorry for... for hurting you.”

“Oh you’re so close.” Garak draws the blunt end of the scalpel up his shin and over his knee.

“Now I don’t doubt your sincerity, of course, I’m sure that you’re absolutely ashamed for even the very breaths that you breathe, but that does lead us back to that matter of justice. You see, Julian, there are two main parts of the trial in our little Cardassian microcosm here. First we have the confession, and then naturally it must follow, the redemption via punishment.” Julian can feel the blunt of that scalped to the inside of his left thigh, tracing over the scabbing wounds until that blunt blade reaches his bloodied genitals.

“Garak I... if I tell you that it’s the Kironide, that you’re not in your right mind, that I’ve no ill intent toward you at all-”

“You know, Julian, there are two parts of a man’s anatomy that I’m often beseeched the most not… make adjustments to…”

“Garak _please_ …”

“Ah now there’s that please I was waiting for.” Julian feels the turn of the blade slow, light, not hard enough to cut yet already brushing sensitive painful wounds. “Now there’s the first.”

“Please… just _think_ about-”

“Would you care to venture a guess,” Garak moves the scalpel suddenly up to the side of Julian’s face rather neatly illustrating the other, “the second of these they beg me not to alter the most?”

_“Julian!”_ it’s Molly’s voice that he hears down the tunnel. His eyes snap open and his head jerks up, the sharp blade breaking into his cheek down to the bone and he cannot help but scream his throat raw at that pain. Garak turns towards the source of that sound and Julian seems him talking agitated, more towards himself than even Julian. 

“Of course, of course, Elim you had to know it was just another setup, another trick, another layer in the game. And Dukat isn’t that smart, it has to be Tain, it _has to be_ Tain.” Julian watches the scalpel fall to the ground, vision swimming. Garak getting to his feet drawing his gun.

“It was Tain, wasn’t it?!” He yells at Julian head turning wildly.

“Molly!” Julian ignores that question, knowing a warning may very well mean the death of them both, knowing he may well not even get out more than one other words before Garak decides to just plant a bullet between his eyes. But he knows that one word, that one code that he taught both her and her brother as children, should that day ever come that- “Moonraker!”

He expects a bullet, his throat to be slit, some retribution or another, but instead he sees Garak not even pay him any attention, still talking to himself, throwing himself behind one of the broken cargo containers when there’s a shot fired in. And then another shot, Garak retreating back further and further until he disappears into the darkness of the far tunnel. _Well, Julian, that_ _was_ _supposed to be “run and get help” but they did have to grow up sometime._ He breathes a sigh of relief that only lasts as long as it takes him to glance down at his naked tied form, covered in blood and welts and remember as that brief flush of adrenaline deserts him just how much everything hurts, how much his face hurts, and he almost feels another urge to vomit. He doesn’t even dare look at his feet which still sting like a thousand fire ants biting at once, stomach roiling angrily. 

And as he sees Molly rush in frantically, both guns drawn followed by Yoshi and Jadzia, he decides that it would have been better if Garak had killed him after all.


	43. Pardon My Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak disappears and regroups while Julian gets patched up and back on his feet- figuratively speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those who skipped last week's gratuitous torture scene, here's what you need to know. Julian's junk and feet are a bit worse for the wear and he received a nasty gash to his cheek. Thankfully he was saved by Molly, Yoshi, and Jadzia as a Kironide mad Garak skittered into the darkness of an adjacent tunnel. That being said, the action is going to start ramping up again and a warning for more minor character death. We'll also be headed back to Indigo soon where Worf patiently waits sipping cold prune juice on a covered porch. Anyhoo, thank you all who continue to read and support me. C&C is always welcome!

Garak exhales sharply as he retreats further back. His movements are slow- without a light the possibility of encountering something that could cause injury or worse increases exponentially the further he goes. He also is close enough to hear the sound of the water Julian had mentioned and the last thing he needs is to drown or be pulled asunder by some prehistoric sea creature left alone to evolve into some highly efficient killing machine after so many years of isolation. He fingers the gun. _Of course that’s likely what they want- that having rescued the traitor and chased off the foul villain of this story that you’ll wander lost in these caves, doomed to die some undignified, miserable starving death, perhaps driven mad by one of the  fungi consumed in a fit of desperation, perhaps poisoned by some ancient eyeless creature in your sleep. Or maybe in final act of despair you take the gun and place it in your own mouth before pulling the trigger? Yes, then the dear doctor won’t need to sully his hands again, will he? He’ll be able to report back to Tain that the problem has been erased and then claim his prize quite prettily. But oh, Julian, you don’t know Tain like I do, if you believe he isn’t already working a way to double cross you as well. It may very well be that he intended for the both of us to destroy each other in some tragic lover’s altercation._

_Ah, what a story we have here then, betrayal, action, and even a few smatterings of sticky sex stuff. Yes. All the trappings of some vulgar Westworld novella. But if I’m to be destroyed, Julian, then let it not be in vain. No. Rest assured, I’ll take you down with me._ Garak smiles nastily in the dark, retreating back again as he calls that map to mind, already placing the pieces like a game of Kotra, see that opening wide, back near the entrance. He knows how to get back- it will be a longer trip, but he feels reborn with purpose, and knows exactly how he’ll see it through. The scalpel is still close at hand and he’s careful to roll it back in a handkerchief into of one of his pockets. It will take a bit longer, but he already knows what he has to do to achieve his goal. All of them gone, all of them erased, and then Tain will have no choice but to see his value, to see the grievous miscalculation he’d made in ever trusting a human over his best operative. Garak hunkers down low, moving quickly. Yes, he’s definitely going to go for the weakest link first.

 

“Not that it’s any of my business to be judging your sex life, mate, but if yer comin’ home all bloodied up like that perhaps yer not doin’ something quite right.” Yoshi winks up at him and Julian fixes the young man with his best glower. It was a stunning impersonation of his father and Julian is thankful that looking down, the resemblance isn’t near close enough to be unsettling. His hair and eyes are dark, but that thick mass atop his head sports an unruly perm that he’s made little attempt to tame, half falling into his eyes as he gently dabs at Julian’s feet. He’s slim like Keiko- like Julian really- and wears a bandana around his neck that he claims he received as a gift from a woman in the south. He’s clean shaven, though Julian knows from his teenage laments that it’s more a matter of being almost completely unable to decent grow facial hair rather than choice. Julian can see the black eye he sports now, along with the dried blood around his mouth where his lip had been split. He can see the long brown jacket- impractical thing that it’s always been- ripped in a few places quite dirty as it dusts the floor. 

Yoshi has discarded a set of fingerless leather gloves as he works, his black trousers seeming to soak up more of the dust as he gently dabs the alcohol over the tops of Julian’s feet. Julian’s face was tended to first, and the powder in his kit was fortunately enough to staunch the bleeding. He wasn’t particularly thrilled with the thick gauze stuck to his face, but Yoshi’s presentation of a new pair of spectacles was more than enough to make up for it. And at last, it explained his separation from the group, Molly’s guess of him meeting with a date was met with mock hurt as Yoshi proudly declared that he was meeting a friend of a friend to see that Julian wouldn’t have to worry about his eyes frightening the locals into more tall tales of the desert ghosts. Julian wears them happily, even as the pain of Yoshi’s ministrations continue. Along with the buzz of banter around him.

“Or maybe he’s doing something quite right,” Jadzia chimes in with that remark tossed over her shoulder. She continues with the wire where Julian left off. Julian hisses, seeing spots dancing in front of his eyes with that burning.

“You’re lucky mom’s back a ways taking samples,” Molly interjects, sitting cross legged looking at a map she’d drawn from Nog’s rendering. “One look at you and I don’t think ‘Uncle Garak’ would be making the trip back with us.”

“Uncle Ga-yaa haa haa…” Julian feels the burning of the alcohol as Yoshi moves to dab his inner thighs. He nearly swallows his tongue as some of the alcohol runs down further. Yoshi sighs and unties his bandana, quickly rolling it up.

“Think you might need this,” He offers it to Julian who gives a shaky nod, sweating and pale. He  looks like he may very well vomit as he dutifully opens his mouth. “You know, I haven’t met this Garak fellow, but I can’t say as he’s left the best impression so far.”

“He’s like your typical Cardie,” Molly answers then pauses thoughtfully. “if a Cardie grew up in a circus.”

“Bet he’s hung like a-” Julian yells a heated interjection around the cloth and Jadzia laughs as both Molly and Yoshi look in her direction.

“He says that’s none of your business and this is _not_ a conversation for children,” she translates with a smirk.

“Children he says. Nice. Won’t be having any more of those with the number the Cardie did on the old Mr. Johnson here.” Julian’s eyes widen in alarm and as much as he’d been reluctant to survey at the damage, he cranes his head just in time to see the splash of the alcohol. His eyes roll back into his head as he nearly loses his voice with the burning pain.

“Kidding, sorry right… Helluva thing to kid a fellow about, I know.” He yelps as Molly smacks the back of his head and quickly works to clean and bandage the delicate area. Julian is sure that’s he’s gone in and out at least a few times as Yoshi continues to work. At last he slumps forward in relief, breathing hard when Yoshi informs him that he’s finished and can finally have the dignity of putting his clothes back on. 

Julian still has no idea how he’s going to manage walking. As Yoshi blandly informed him, the soles of his feet rather resemble something that’s been put through a cheese grater. Even now with the bandages, the thought of putting serious weight, of walking with that sore skin, hardly appeals to him. Still, he may need to suck it up and try. They need to capture Garak and get him away from the Kironide as soon as possible and then get back to the ship. Julian doesn’t know how long the effects will still remain in Garak’s system, but at least, he supposes grimly, they have the rope to wrap him up as tightly as they need to. In the worst case, he trusts that Molly can take him down quickly and carefully with the crossbow without casualty.

“Molly, you said that Keiko’s back near the entrance?” Julian looks worried as he tries to stand, legs buckling, the pain lancing through his feet. He hisses, trying to grit through it and Yoshi is there lowering him back to seated, plopping down in more of the red Kironide dust. He huffs irritated. “I know I can’t say anything about leaving her alone. She can take care of herself and God knows I wasn’t expecting Garak to lose his mind down here but I don’t like her being there by herself… what’s so funny?” He sees the three of them look at each other half smirking, Molly laughing behind her hand.

“Oh you weren’t there, Julian,” she explains standing up. “We caught up with ‘em, right. We saw the two of them standing there not even looking out. They were fiddling with some kinda gun box-“

“Phaser.”

“Fine, phaser... know it all. But they weren’t even looking and mom was getting mad seeing Yoshi tied up like a hog saying they weren’t supposed to rough him up like that.”

“Dunno how she expected to them to catch me without getting a little rough. No harm no foul but-“

“But _I’m_ telling Julian-“

“How mom rushed in there and whacked the guy out cold with her bag. Pow, right in the face. Think she mighta knocked a few years off his life while she was at it.” 

Molly glares at him.

“This is why you don’t get to ride in the big ship.” Yoshi blithely ignores her making a mock swing with Julian’s bag.

“Why is he bleeding?!” he screams impersonating Keiko in a falsetto and Julian can’t help but smile at that. He shakes his head, still keeping a careful ear out for Garak. He doesn’t hear anything and looks to Jadzia.

“How’s it coming with that? We can’t set it off until we’re sure everyone’s clear. Especially now that we’re all covered in this dust. But it’s better that it’s in place. Once we’ve gotten Garak ah… situated we won’t want any delays. Speaking of, what about the two that were guarding you? I’m afraid the others didn’t make it so it might be em… a bit of a delicate situation.”

“It was an accident,” Molly answers with a tense shrug. “Right? I mean… if they didn’t make it… it couldn’t be helped. Dad’s always saying you can’t cry over tough choices. Just learn from it and keep going.” She puts the map away. “We better get moving.” Jadzia appears from behind the second container just at that moment brushing the dust off her pants. She exhales hard, wiping the sweat off her brow.

Julian looks at her concerned.

“God, I completely forgot. Jadzia. You’re not a human.”

“I’m glad you noticed. Sometimes I forget that myself.” He notices that she’s started biting her nails absently as she looks at him.

“How are you holding up? Has the dust been causing any ill effects?” She smiles at him thinly seeming to just realize that absent gesture herself.

“Remember when we did the _zhian-tara_ years ago? When you all helped me communicate with the other hosts of the symbiont?” Julian nods looking at her curiously.

“Well… it’s kinda like that… in my head right now.” Her smile is tight and it seems that she barely stops herself from biting her nails again. Julian blinks a few times surprised, amazed at how composed she appears given the circumstances.

“Right well… s’posse we better get a move on before it gets any worse.”

“Don’t worry. I only have _one_ murderous impulse in my head and I think I’ve gotten him tightly under wraps.” Julian doesn’t look entirely convinced and he’s about to try and stand again when Yoshi holds him back.

“Whoa, easy there cowboy, we’re about to settle this.” He looks at Molly, and Julian sees them shaking their fists at each other. “Best out of three?”

“Really,” he protests, “I can manage. I just need a-” He notices they’re not even listening as they continue the game of rock, paper, scissors.

“Aw c’mon, I know I saw you cheat!”

“S’only cheating if someone sees you, Molls. Quark’s third rule.” Yoshi smirks at her and she slaps his hand.

“Fine, but _you’re_ carrying him to the ship.”

“I’m injured!”

“Save yer complainin fer the trees,” Molly affects Miles’ voice as she sticks her tongue out and Julian sighs, still seeing the both of them in his mind a good fifteen years younger.

“I suppose it’s for the best Miles isn’t here, he’d probably want to string up poor Garak and wear him like a hat.” Julian stares, blinking a few times dumbly as Molly kneels down and motions for him to climb on her back. “Oh you _cannot_ be serious.”

“Yeah, we got it, poor Uncle Garak, yeah… Get on,” Yoshi shoos him like he would a stray cat he’s trying to coax out of a try. “I’ll help.” Julian glowers darkly in return as he climbs onto Molly’s back with the extra assist.

“This is ridiculous.”

“ _I_ think the two of you look adorable.” Jadzia beams, leaving Julian thankful that onworld they can’t easily access instant photographs. He makes a rather strangled yelp as Molly stands, bouncing him a few times to resituate his legs.

“Steady now, you know how those old bones are.” Yoshi gins in the face of Julian’s glower, looking into the dark passage on the other end of the cave soberly for just a moment watching. He looks back down at the red Kironide dust. “You don’t think just a little could hurt?”

“You even _think_ about putting that in your mouth Juriyoshi O’Brien and I’ll make sure and tell Miles who _really_ started that shed fire.”

“You promised you wouldn’t tell him that!”

“Yes, and I spent the entire week helping him rebuild the damn thing too. No, we’re just going to have to bring “Uncle Garak” in the good old fashioned way.” _And pray that no one gets hurt in the meantime…_

“You’re being ridiculous, Nog!” Dorian Collins stands behind a young man with close cropped black hair, seated on the dirt, hands tied behind his back. Next to him sits another man, taller, with broader shoulders and a tan open face. He’s silent, sandy hair falling into his eyes, head resting against his knees looking dazed. Nog stands over them both, glowing as she stops untying the ropes.

“I am not taking any chances with them. Not when we’re this close. Once this is over I don’t… I don’t care where you want to go or what you decide to do. But until then, leave them.”

“They’re really gone?” The man with the blonde hair asks, or rather says to himself as he looks into to the desert. “All of them.

“I didn’t want it to end that way, Laxis. You know that.”

“I don’t know _anything_. You asked us to trust you. We dumped the Kironide, we kept the keys just like you wanted. Without asking you anything, Nog. And then you disappeared. When Captain Watters came back to us and said you were planning to sell it after you-“

“And you believed him?!”

“What the l were any of us supposed to believe? A Ferengi disappears after dropping two tons of a priceless element and you know I felt pretty stupid after that!”

“Because they murdered Shepard! At least that’s how it seemed. You have no idea... You have no idea the deception that’s been pulled off at my expense! I thought you were all _dead_!” Laxis turns suspiciously to the black haired man who draws up straighter suddenly looking confused.

“What’s he talking about, Tam?”

“Captain Watters had instructed us all to keep quiet. I thought that you knew,”

“You were supposed to be dead. All of you. Except for Neem.” Nog laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “What’s that the Captain said to me once… he’d heard the only thing Ferengi value more than money is their lives. Sometimes not even then. They wanted me to move. To try and destroy it. They knew. All of it. I just… I just needed to this stop. I needed time to think. I couldn’t find anyone that I trusted.” He looks at Collins who frowns and looks down.

“I guess there still isn’t anyone, is there? You think I don’t care about the Dominion threat. I’ve heard you. I can hear better than you all think probably. I know what you were saying that night we discussed what to do with the shipment. Of course they won’t come here to Westworld. Why would the Ferengi from Westworld care about the rest of the Alpha Quadrant? And you’re right about one thing. There’s nothing of strategic value and the planet itself would likely drag every ship out of orbit to crash. But you’re wrong. I _do_ care. I didn’t join Starfleet for glory or for profit.” He looks at the three of them, taking a seat as well. “You know the profit is terrible.” Laxis laughs. Collins shifts uneasily.

“You never did say what the Kironide did, Nog. What it does to Ferengi.” He shifts, looking away as if considering that the truth may have very may saved such suffering as they face now. It was a question that he wrestled with numerous times in the past, alone, kept up at night while out on the Valiant. There were times that he considered it may very well be the aftereffects of the contact still lingering but-

“It… it nearly drove me insane,” He answers softly, not looking at any of them. “It creates these illusions… these auditory hallucinations, these visions. They circle, they repeat, they just… they hammer away loudly so loudly that I cannot even…” He trails off, fists clenched. “The Federation and the Ferengi are allies. I know that. But I also know Section 31… what Doctor Bashir told me of it when I asked it.  “For Section 31 there is no line that can’t be crossed, no boundary, no morals. Everything is for what they call justice and the information they collect on our allies, on our friends, the plans they have, the contingencies… The thought that anything in those containers could be used against us, I can’t risk that. It’s too dangerous. I asked Captain Watters to trust me. If he could understand that there were things beyond the Dominion I couldn’t talk about but he said it came down from Sloan. For Starfleet, for the Federation, for the badge.”

He watches as Collins hesitantly goes to untie Tam again, a wall of silence between them. He watches but he doesn’t object.

“And now there are only four of us. Four enemies where there were once eleven comrades.” He removed the non functioning COM badge from his uniform and threw it across the rocky ground as if he were skipping a stone.

“Nog!” They all watched as it skipped over the damp rock and down where the water streamed. Collins rose, following it quickly.

“Leave it!” Nog watched her with a sigh, seeing the two men untied looking down rather than at him.

“This is some kind of a mess, isn’t it?” Laxis shakes his head. “I don’t even know what the l to say to you right now.” Nog only barely listens, seeing Collins kneel in the water, peering down into the hole carefully.

“I know what this means to you, Nog. I know what you had to work through, what you had to do to earn it. Just let me... at least let me do this much so I can-“

The shot is a piercing cry that rings out, and they all look, turning frantically to see where it came from. And that’s when Nog fixes his attention back on Collins kneeling by that hole in the rock, letting out a keening scream as he sees the blood, the red obscuring whatever of her features remain as the stream runs deep crimson with her blood.


	44. Trail of Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One dead, how many more will fall with Garak out of control? Stay tuned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I was going for scary towards the end but at the same time I started to give myself such a ridiculous mental image I was giggle after a point. Hopefully I reigned it in well enough not hurt the mood but anyway, we finally have the semi Empok Nor recreation I was going for. A warning (which I realize I should've given again or last chapter or several chapters ago) for minor characters biting the dust to increase dramatic tensions... maybe I should've dressed them all in red shirts. Anyhoo, thank you everyone who continues to read and support this effort. We're coming to a close in this arc and I look forward to new adventures, more fun with out beloved trio along with more murder plots abound and oh yeah, an angry Worf. Of course C&C is always welcome too! (As long as this has been running I'm sure there are plenty of things that can be picked at...)

It takes both Laxis and Tam to pull Nog from the opening, the water splashing around all three of them. He reaches for Collins, screaming again, still in shock as he stares at the body on the ground, blood running red down that hole. His hands vacillate between reaching for the gun and reaching out to her, finally his hand settling for going over his mouth as he’s yanked violently backwards.

“D-Do… Do…” He stutters, still staring at that hole, expecting some nightmare creature to come thundering out. He doesn’t hear anything but the sound of the running water.

“Nog!” That comes from Laxis to his right, the broad shoulders holding him tightly. He screams again, a loud cry clawing up from his throat, making his vocal cord vibrate, hurt, that squeal a pain to his own ears as he holds that weapon and slams it to the ground hard over and over, that keening cry in his throat until he almost thinks that it bleeds. 

They let him scream. He doesn’t know how long it lasts until his feet stop kicking, the hand holding the gun shaking hard as he holds it pointed at the ground beneath them. Tam is on his knees, turned away looking pale. He takes a few deep breaths as Laxis looks to the ground, finally letting Nog go when he stills his movements. He feels a moments of strange calm and remembers Leeta telling him as a child that the Prophets would always come to him in his hour of need. His father had always been hard pressed to find words of comfort from his own culture that calmed him in the same way. It will have to be all he can hold onto for now.

“It… It came from the ground, didn’t it?” He looks at Tam and Nog’s fingers curl underneath him as he looks slowly around, pulse starting to race even faster as the reality of the situation sets in beyond the death of his former lover.

“What was that?” Both of them look to him and as improbable as it seems, Nog calls to mind the tunnels beneath, that catacomb network running even under their very feet now. He’d explored several kilometers with Jake when they were younger and he knows for a fact that there are even other egress and ingress points. He’s often wondered if early Westworld settlers didn’t explore and carve those tunnels further out, but there’s never been any physical evidence left behind to truly confirm that. But the result remains; while some are more practical than others, one can navigate around that area and even come up behind where they stand now, though Nog can’t imagine anyone scaling that face of cliff to do so. 

He turns his gun over in his hands, knowing what that noise was, knowing that marquee but still wanting to shut his eyes and imagine that he’s back in space with nothing but the warm hum of the engine in the quiet. Or even further back in his memories to his days at the Academy when they’d met, and Dorian had looked at him half shyly with a duck of her head, introducing herself to him before anyone else had. But he isn’t, and he looks at the rock below them as if he could somehow see through it, just imaging some enemy below. _Get a hold of yourself, Nog, you know that’s not possible. They fired there because a bullet could not possibly fire through the rock and they have no way of knowing your location. Whoever it is... whatever it is._  

He looks back towards Collins, towards Dorian, the only one who he thought believed in him, who he knew above all else wanted to help, wanted to save as many people as she could. She nearly fell apart during the attack when Captain Ramirez was killed and he knew it if wasn’t for Captain Watters she may not have held together. _As if it was Watters who stayed with her after those first few days. It wasn’t Watters who stayed up listening to how homesick she was, how scared she was. The Captain didn’t want to hear a word of it. And you were too blind to your own cleverness to see it. All you cared about was showing how important you were, how_ _useful_ _you were, that you belonged in Starfleet, in Red Squad._

“Nog?”He watches her image waver and he can feel a stick tight in his throat as he tries to blink it away. He and Laxis were close once. At first, it was only him standing again Captain Watters, but Laxis had joined him, agreeing that it was too dangerous to let such a substance out into the universe; trusting him even without knowing all of the details. He takes a deep breath knowing that they need to move, that they need to find Julian and the others immediately. Just like the disaster on the Valiant, there will be time to mourn later. Right now he needs to act and he stands up, taking a deep breath.

“It’s a gun. A Westworld firearm. As far as I know only the four of us have them; Molly, Yoshi, the Cardassian, and me.” He hesitates, knowing that Captain Watters had one along with Commander Farris. He sees a brief flash of that fire, that weapon discharging as he threw himself to his feet and shoved Farris in the way of the creature before it could hit Collins. He feels that lead weight wrapping around his heart, shaking his head. Even if they survived, they wouldn’t have been able to make it here in their condition. Not as injured as they’d been. Which either left the remaining three or some unseen force. But Westworld isn’t space, and nothing here operates under those same strange laws.

“Was anyone else with you?” He asks Tam and Laxis as they gravitate towards his center surrounding him, anxiously staying close. Tam shakes his head, wiping his hands on his pant legs.

“No, it was just us. The Captain said that his superiors didn’t trust anyone else to know about what we’d found.”

“Then that still leaves one.” Nog considers Neem, in hiding, as far as he knows having never spoken with any of them except him. Laxis shakes his head.

“You were the only one to talk with him. As far as I know he’s still hiding out somewhere in the badlands. He might even be with the Maquis. But he’s not here.”

“Then we need to get to the others.” Nog takes a few steps then stops, turning around. He looks at the cave opening and then at the water with a deep frown. He knows that to venture into the caves will mean swift incapacitation. He knows that it will make him a liability- a danger to himself and everyone else. But they need to know what’s going on and warn Julian and the others, and splitting up would be an even worse liability.

He looks to the two humans uncertainly. There was a time once when the three of them would have trusted each other with their lives. There would be no hesitation. He needs that trust again, but it will leave him vulnerable. And he remembers too well Quark telling him that dead men earn no profit. Nog takes up one of the ropes and hands it to Laxis.

“We’re going to have to go in. And you’re going to have to tie my hands. The Kironide has a proximity effect and I don’t know how far we’ll need to go in. For that tunnel below to be accessed, whoever that is would have had to pass the underground river and pass the Kironide. I know if I get that close that it will… effect me. 

“Are you both still with me? In destroying it? Whatever happened between us I… I still need to make sure that it can’t be used by anyone else.”  He looks, expecting reluctant faces as he turns to both of them but only sees that steely Starfleet resolve. It is that hoo-man honor that Captain Watters used to preach that at first seemed completely alien to him, only Nog thinks that _he_ was the one who didn’t truly understand what that meant. It was that same honor that Mr. O’Brien had spoken of when he’d tell them tales of the war, of men in generations past even greater who would sooner die than betray their comrades.

“Can you see us off world when this is over? We need to make our report and I don’t even know where the we’re gonna start. We were requested for this assignment by a bunch of guys in leather coats and to be honest, I didn’t ask a whole lotta questions once I saw the look on Commander MacDonald’s face.”

“Of course. And I think when this is all over that we’ll all have a lot of things to think about as well.” Nog swallows as he’s tied carefully, looking ahead to that darkness with an inexplicable sense of dread.

 

Garak cannot be certain but he almost thinks that the Kironide has heightened his other senses to level that have far surpassed even the most skilled of hunters. The female that he’d taken down had seemed but a pin drop as he looked up at the bright sky from the darkness of that cavern. And yet he was successful. He could feel the drip down warm onto his skin from her blood bleeding in with that water and he smiles triumphantly counting off one more down. He would have preferred the Ferengi, but now that he considers it, he’ll need a pilot for the ship back. The first ship, the large one is too cumbersome. In fact he may disable that so that they can’t follow him. The second plane however, that small craft surely can seat two. He had been concerned initially; the two prospective candidates for that mission were the two young augments, but as he considered, he was suddenly thankful that it wasn’t the Ferengi who’d appeared. Of course, he could be persuaded to fly that plane though it may be a sight more difficult now that his woman was no longer available as a bargaining chip.

 _You see, Elim, you try and adjust for your inaction, for your earlier hesitations, and you make a grave miscalculation. But you can recover from this. And the Ferengi looks easy enough to break. Perhaps if you start taking out his companions one by one he’ll realize the error of his ways. That leaves the two with him, and the rest with Julian. Ah, dear, dear, Julian, you and I were only getting started weren’t we? Count yourself fortunate that didn’t I set the Kironide on fire without a secondary means of escape. I would have enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that you’re burning to death with that regret of ever crossing me but I’ll have to come for you later. I know that you’ll survive this though. You’ve survived so much already I know this alone won’t be enough to kill you._ Garak is already moving again, those thoughts a mad rush through his head. He can see far easier now, as he practically runs through those caverns, the blood flowing wildly, making him hot, every bit of organic matter, the insects, the snakes, the moss along the walls seeming to burn like beacons for him mapping the way.

He calls back to mind the entrance, every bit of that layout, knowing that there will be a point even before he reaches that three way split that he can catch them. It will have to be from underneath once more, but he can manage it. The dust and the damp have made that red stick to his face, his body, leaving him far more capable than he’d ever imagined, even without ingestion. He feels lighter as he runs, racing against them knowing that they cannot be allowed to meet up with Julian. Ah, but they don’t know that he’d heard them. He knows everything they’re planning and he decides that the gun will be far too loud now, instead deciding that he’ll use that scalpel. It will be far more quiet, far more deadly. 

Garak once more replays that map diagram in his head, remembering that hole that he’d nearly fallen into on their way to the containers. If his timing is right then he can get there first, or at least intercept them. He’s down far, but not nearly as far as they’ll need to come around to reach that point and he has some nearly otherworldly sense that he can do it. It makes no sense, of course, but as he feels the slick walls and that steep angle, there is some instinct in him awakened, reborn, that just _knows_ that he’ll be successful. Garak smiles ferally, unaware of the blood beginning to trickle from his nose as he makes that ascent.

 

They had found Keiko carefully taking notes on a sample of one of the moss varieties not too far in from the entrance. She’d been so focused on the view beneath the ultra magnified lens that she nearly jumped when the three of them had approached. When Nog explained the situation however, she was quick to pack away her supplies and stand.

“I must’ve lost track of time.” She takes out a small watch and looks at it with a frown. “They should’ve been back already.” Keiko immediately looked to Tam. “This isn’t another part of the plan is it.” He visibly blanches, seeming to remember that bag hitting him earlier from a far less calm Keiko.

“No Ma’am. There’s only…” he swallowed, looking to Nog uncomfortably. “There’s only the three of us.”

“Then it has to be that Cardassian man, Garak,” she says definitively. “Miles said to watch out for him, that he didn’t trust him… Of course, my husband still has some of his old prejudices but...” She looks down the tunnel visibly worried. “Julian wouldn’t let anything happen to Molly or Yoshi. I know he wouldn’t.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect to Doctor Bashir, but his closeness to the Cardassian might make him do something foolish.” 

“I _trust_ Julian. But you’re right, we should hurry. The sooner that we find out what’s going on the better.”

Nog steps to the front, still adjusting his gait to compensate for the disruption to his balance caused by his tied back hands.

“I can show you the most straightforward way to the shipment. Jake and I were here for weeks making maps, and surveying the veins of Sedinium that run through here. It’s easy to get lost.” He keeps forward, moving quickly. “I don’t know long it will be that I can guide you. I don’t remember exactly how much time had passed the last time I’d been exposed. The Kironide should be contained. The cargo containers that cousin Gaila had sold us could withstand even fire from a plasma cannon-”

“So he claimed,” Tam mutters under his breath as the four of them half jog through the narrow passages.

“I trust our cousin Gaila,” Nog protests defensively.

“Wasn’t he the one you said sold your Uncle Quark those explosive charges that didn’t work?”

“They _work_ ,” Nog retorts. “Just not onworld…” He presses on continuing fast through the cave. “The container won’t have failed.”

“But if it did?”

“Then it… might be problematic,” he admits, slowing down to a stop.

“You know if we run into him head on I’m just as likely to hit you with this thing, right?” Laxis holds the weapon awkwardly and Nog can feel his nerves start to slip just a bit. He’s started to feel the head pressure slightly, but he’s sure if they hurry they can make good enough time to meet up with Julian and the others. Keiko wastes no time in neatly snatching it from his grip.

“I know how to fire it,” she motions forward with the gun and it gives Nog a brief flash of being taken hostage. He takes a deep breath focusing back on the ground.

“It… it may be starting,” he says uneasily. “Watch me. If I start to act strange I…” He isn’t entirely sure what to suggest. On the Valiant he’d had to deal with it, locking himself in his room while the rest of the crew experimented with the temporary telekinetic effects. He has a brief memory of the objects flying around his room, a model that he’d been working on shattering against the wall as the images went out of control. He swallows hard. “Just watch me,” he pleads as he starts off again. “And watch your step. We’re close to a connector tunnel that goes down. I think the ground is more stable around the right but I…”

He stops suddenly, hearing a loud grunting breathing, a dark hissing huff that chills him immediately. Nog isn’t sure though if it’s only in his head or if he’s really hearing it. He turns to the humans, frustrated, knowing that none of them would even be able to begin to hear it.

“Be careful I… I think I might hear something.” He hurries around, hoping they’ll remain on guard , getting a bad feeling as that sound grows louder. It’s followed by some slick sliding sound that seems to be coming from that tunnel. _No, No, you know that isn’t possible. No one could come up that way without the proper equipment. The angle is too steep, the walls are too slick. No, it_ _has_ _to be a hallucination._ Nonetheless, he hurries around, hearing that _hiss suck_ seeming to get loud in his head, making him throw himself against the wall of the cave, shoulder first, shutting his eyes tightly.

“Nog?” This from Laxis but it’s drowned out by that amplified respiration resonating and he feels a tug to his other shoulder that he draws back from.

“Don’t you hear it? You have to hear it or I’m already…. That noise…” He looks to Keiko who only stares back confused but he can see the three of them pause and listen. It’s hard to see, the only light comes from the lantern that Keiko had passed to Tam. The three of them are stopped completely, and as the sound of their feet stop that breathing grows louder, angrier and as terrified as he is to look, Nog opened his eyes and turns towards the hole. Keiko frowns, looking at him with a nod.

“You’re fine Nog. I hear it. But I can’t…” She listens harder and Nog takes a few steps back along that wall, feeling the damp starting to soak through his uniform. He sees Tam with the raised lamp turn, that hole to his left. He looks down, leaning over it.

“Are there any underground heat sources that could be outgassing?” He kneels down, the lantern above that sharp steep tunnel, revealing little more than a sharp slop that curves back around. Tam shakes his head, standing back up brushing his uniform off at the knees. “Well let’s just keep moving, yeah? Nog?”

Nog can still hear it and it’s only getting louder. But now it’s more than the breathing. He hears an angry series of hisses, a low guttural growl that seems familiar but he can’t quite place it. He also thinks that he hears his own name, but again, that _has_ to be impossible. Tam is right. They should move. They should run. He feels annother irrational chill that makes him shiver and he turns to Keiko.

“I know what I said but… maybe… maybe you should undo these ropes. I swear I… I think I need my hands, I think we need the gun, _please_.” He feels a cold sweat, his body clammy, almost feverish as the walls seem to bow out behind the three watching him. Keiko looks concerned, turning back to the hole once before looking at him again.

“I hear it, Nog. But I don’t…” She stops, that frown deepening, her eyes getting wide. “Wait. Wait I know what that sound is.” She keeps hold of the gun but fumbles to untie his ropes at the same time, clearly reluctant to holster it. “It’s Cardassian! I’ve heard it spoken enough that I... I don’t understand what it’s saying but I’m _sure_ of it. It’s Garak! Nog forget the ropes, we need to move right _now_ we need to-”

She doesn’t get to finish that sentence as he sees it- some nightmare creature that rises from that hole like something Mr. O’Brien used to tell tale of to scare the children around the campfire. It’s a monster. As sure as he breathes, whatever it is that propels itself out of the depths cannot possible be anything but. It seems to fly, to hover out as it launches at Tam. A flick of its arm around his neck and Nog sees a bright red gash cut neatly across his throat, the creature snarling, talons extended towards the rest of them. Keiko raises the gun to fire, but with Tam’s body shielding it, she doesn’t take the shot. And that’s when the lantern drops the lantern, his hands coming up desperately to try and staunch the bleeding. It’s covered in blood. Nog is sure of it. Before that lantern falls he sees red eyes, flared furious nostrils as a guttural voice burbles his name once more.

“Nog...”

“Shoot it!”

“I can’t I...” She can’t see, of course with the lantern rolling down that hole the light leaves them all to be plunged into darkness. He hears the thud of a body and screams again as he he fights away from Keiko with a piercing scream,

“ _Shoot it_!” His legs locking uselessly as there are more guttural noises, more hisses, his name again followed by the sounds of a scuffle. That has to be laxis. Nog’s hands are still tied and he cannot hold still for her to finish unbinding him as she tries once more now blind- he doesn’t allow it. The light was gone suddenly reappears, the tempered glass finally shattering someway down immediately sparking a flame burning from below.

The flames rise quickly behind as the monster lurches forward with that alien tongue, the fire blinding Nog’s eyes as Keiko shoves him out of the way firing two shots at the two wrestling men. Nog struggles to right himself and he can see all at once those flames reach up engulfing the both of them. There’s a roar that he hears, and he rolls over, struggling back to his feet, the only light that fire that blazes around them.

“RUN!” He hears shouted and by now has no idea by who or why, but there’s another gun shot that comes as Nog finally braced against the wall stands and starts running as best as he can over the slick rock. He hears the flames, more gunfire and just starts screaming into the dark unable to see as the light from the fire fades. 

His heart is racing, more screams and cries seeming to come from all directions before he trips and crashes hard into either the wall of the cave or one of the rock formations from below. He isn't sure which it is, feeling hands grabbing him roughly, right before he blacks out.


	45. How the West Was Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of this "Empok Nor" arc and the fate of Garak's poor hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not wanting to drag this arc out further, I'm pleased to be able to move into some more relationship development and possibly the return of the hateful eight as it were and possibly an appearance by Dukat and an expansion of the cast in future chapters so stay tuned! I didn't want to get too comical but there is a ridiculous picture of a flaming Garak running naked through the caves shrieking that wouldn't leave me alone. So look for some characters to be reappearing later and some new ones while we move on to the next stage or out grand adventure! Thank you all for reading and supporting me in this craziness and good or bad (though at this point I can't really make a whole lot of changes to what's already out there), your comments are always welcome!

The first thing that Garak notices upon waking is that he cannot move. Not that his body is itself incapable of those motor impulses, but rather he seems bound to tightly to the surface of... a bed if he has to hazard a guess. He resists the impulse to immediately struggle, instead keeping his eyes closed listening carefully for any sound around him. It would be far better that the culprits of his current entrapment are not aware yet that he has come back to consciousness. The brief spasm of his arms and legs that brought his bound state to his own attention could certainly be attributed to some involuntary motion. He doesn’t hear anyone else in the room however, at least insofar as movement or chatter. Slowly, very slowly, he allows his eyes lids to lift, at first only enough to register the bright light in the room and a few vague shapes, but then-

“Thank god you’re awake.” That voice to his left snaps his eyes fully open, and Garak looks up to see Julian’s face hovering above him. He opens his mouth, jaw strangely stiff and sore as a million questions and scattered recollections flood his mind. What’s notable, aside from the ropes binding his arms, legs, and even his torso to the bed, is the wary look in Julian’s eyes as he looks down at him. Garak takes note first of the spectacles newly returned to his face, and then notes that in spite of the fact that Julian has definitely cleaned up from his last memories, he appears to have hardly slept. He doesn’t realize he’s staring at those thin silver frames until he sees Julian adjusting them self consciously. “Ah, right, Yoshi had brought these back from a contact off world. He was meeting them in Central that’s why he… ah…” Julian trails off still holding onto that uneasy expression. “You know I’m em… not entirely certain where to begin as far as the… incident or what you remember or…” Julian stops and Garak notices that he’s been having difficulty the entire time in maintaining eye contact.

“Perhaps we might address the small matter of the restraints?” Garak asks, expecting to find his mouth dry but instead noting nothing of the sort and the lingering taste of lemon. His lips as well seem to have some slippery film over them and he can only guess that he must have been unconscious for quite some time for such medical intervention to be necessary. The last thing that he can vividly recall is standing outside the cave with Julian about to complete the last leg of their journey to destroy the Kironide. He supposes it’s possible that he’d suffered some head trauma during that mission, which would also explain the strange dreams that he’d been having involving fire and Julian tied naked to a rock. _Of course it could certainly be a subconscious projection of your own circumstances as well._ Still, he has a suspicion that’s not what it is. And then suspicion is confirmed when Julian looks away and absently massages the back of his neck.

“Yes, well, about that we ah… There are a few things that need discussion and the decision is one that’s going to need to be made by consensus. How much do you… how much do you remember of what happened?”

“In the caves?”

“Yes, yes in the caves.” Garak shifts, the restraints beginning to feel quite restrictive now that’s he’s fully conscious. He takes a moment to look around and he realizes that he’s back aboard the airship, in his and Julian’s shared quarters to be exact. That would account for a few hours at the very least, but again, something tells him it’s been far longer than that.

“I’m afraid, I don’t remember much. I have a few flashes perhaps of red, of the dark of the… walls…” he trails off, an involuntary shudder passing through him. Come to think of it, whenever those images lick around the corner of his memories it seems to him that he didn’t quite feel the normal fear that he should have. As a matter of fact, there are parts of the memories, flashes of motion that almost seem exhilarating.

“That’s it?” Julian’s tone and face are oddly unreadable and that when Garak really takes in the bandage on the side of his face covering some injury or another.

“Was there… a problem?” he asks delicately, realizing that his bladder is just now finding itself in need of release. He’s about to ask if he may at the very least be allowed to relieve himself when he notices an odd sensation from that region. Ah, of course, a catheter.  He decides that he’s not even going to ask what other indignities he may have been subjected to. Julian looks decidedly uneasy as he begins a cursory examination of his vitals.

“That’s… that’s certainly one way of putting it. You know, I’m not sure if it’s for better or worse that you don’t remember. Better for you maybe but that may make it more difficult for everyone else. I’ve asked that no one else come in.. wasn’t too hard really  though I expect Jadzia will be picking the lock once she hears you’re awake, she was quite concerned.” Julian continues to work in silence and Garak as well is unusually taciturn as he does. Garak can see that he’s trying to decide how to broach what is becoming clear to be a delicate subject. Julian’s evasiveness, while admirable, is hardly productive and as far as Garak’s concerned, if he’s going to obfuscate the truth, he might have the decency to come up with a plausible lie.

That silence stretches on until finally, with a deep breath Julian begins slowly, hesitantly at first, until he gathers full steam into a string of conversation rushing past Garak’s ears barely pausing for breath. It sounds wildly fantastic, of course, but Garak can feel a strange pressure starting behind his head when Julian describes his eyes and the near hemorrhage that he’d feared from the effects of the Kironide.

“But you know, it’s not surprising,” Julian explains much more animated.  Garak notes that as he walks around the room it’s gingerly, carefully, and he cannot help but feel a slight lurch in his stomach at that. _Really, for a man you were attempting to torture to death and likely immolate, he seems perfectly content to remain in your company. No, that’s not entirely correct, Elim, look a little more carefully why don’t you? You can see a wariness in his eyes as he watches you, you can see a tension, you can tell that he’s ready to jump back should you suddenly attack._ That sparks a sudden admittedly irrational annoyance in him. After all, he’d made it quite clear that he’d wanted no part of those damn caves while Julian insisted that he accompany him inside.

Still, it’s understandable, and Garak is beginning to feel a greater annoyance with the situation as a whole. He’s taken great pains, after all, to work himself to a certain level of intimacy with Julian and his associates in Indigo and though the situation was primarily out of his control, he is well aware of the deep instinctual visceral response that his presence is likely going to cause if not outright hostility. And that’s without Julian having finished the account of what happened between that impromptu interrogation and the present. He has a feeling that whatever it is it’s somehow only going to make things far worse. Garak sighs, already cursing himself a thousand different ways for bring Dukat or Tain to Julian’s vocabulary for any reason. _And he’s not going to forget it either, you can count on that. Whether or not he has any ill intent, he’s sure to harangue you about it when this is all over._ But then again, Garak has a few burning questions of his own, most of which revolve around Julian’s own suspect dealings with Section 31.

Garak takes a deep breath, acclimating to the situation, adjusting, allowing his body to relax into a meditative center. He can feel the convergence of different thoughts, different emotions into some chaotic state and that certainly won’t do. Julian has taken this moment to pause, regard him thoughtfully, and allow that reprieve before deciding on whether or not to continue. After all, they’ve only reached the point in the narrative where Garak flees like some violent troglodyte into the darkness; certainly not one of his finer moments.

“I’m sure you must be hungry.” Julian says at last. “We’ve been able to keep you hydrated and thank God for some of the modified offworld tech that allowed us to do it, but You haven’t had a thing to eat since breakfast that morning.” As soon as he says the words, Garak feels immediately ravenous. He wonders if that’s not the result of a little basic psychology coupled with Julian’s own esoteric techniques of persuasion or simply the fact that it’s been days since he’s had a proper meal. Garak shakes his head. Julian’s impromptu attempt at distraction only further cements that he absolutely must know what happened. So Julian tells him.

Garak listens as Julian takes a deep breath filling in the necessary extrapolations of what Garak must have been doing alone down in the caves after running off. Garak, for his part, finds that no recollections comes to him as Julian describes his cold blooded killing of Dorian Collins and the other two Starfleet officers. There’s a cold pit in his stomach as he listened to that narrative, Julian having pieced it as best as he can from Nog and later Keiko. It seems the Ferengi had been suffering intense hallucinations, and by the time they were even able to string a coherent answer out of him, the tale had devolved into some mythical battle between good and evil, Garak being the immolated incarnation of the devil itself or Pah wraiths… or something along those lines at least. It seemed that once the somber moment passed where he described the final moments of the two gentlemen that had been holding Yoshi captive, that the narrative took on an almost comical tone. For him, that is, not Julian. As Julian had postulated that the sheer volume of Kironide dust he’d inhaled had given him the ability to telekinetically direct at least a portion of his mass up that improbable tunnel, Garak was finding the picture that painted to be surreal to the point of comedy. He doubted Julian would appreciate that in light of the heinous violence that’d he –knowingly or not- perpetuated upon the lot of them.

But even Garak could only hold out so long when Julian quite matter of factly painted a picture of a naked Cardassian, arms akimbo, fire blazing from his every pore charging at the lot of them as they’d rushed past an unconscious Nog to subdue him. He delicately masks that as a cough.

“And you know when he regained consciousness, Nog was swearing that he’d been attacked by some sort of flame monster; some angry rock golem from the ancient times. I think that was some tale Miles had read when they were all younger. Of course you know, it was the Kironide.” Julian crosses his arms and shakes his head. “I told you it was highly flammable, in fact I recall warning you to take care.” Garak blinks at him a few times.

“I assure you, Julian, the next time I find myself having taken leave of my mental facilities I shall endeavor to recall with precision your every detailed instruction.” Julian looks somewhat abashed at that and clears his throat.

“Right, s’ppose that was a rather stupid thing to say. You really did scare me. I mean… I mean discounting the… the other things, seeing you on fire half flying at us, I was almost afraid we’d have to shoot you. We didn’t of course but it was definitely a concern…”

And with Julian having reiterated that detail about the fire, Garak looks down to what parts of his body that he can see and finds them strangely without mark. _Odd. They certainly don’t have the technology onworld to perform anything half as close as a dermal regenerator can manage._ Julian seems to read that confusion, sitting back up straight once more animated.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why there aren’t at the very least second degree burns. From what Keiko had described once the lantern had fallen down the shaft and broken it was a firestorm coming out and engulfing everything. Thankfully you had the presence of mind to remove the clothing. If you hadn’t then we’d have seen a lot worse than the first degree burns I was able to treat, more around the middle but I don’t think it should still be tender. It’s actually quite fascinating though. Some of the tests they’d performed on the standard Kironide isotope had shown that it’s highly flammable and combustible under the right circumstances. Really, it’s a wonder we didn’t blow ourselves to kingdom come, but in fact, it seems that the fire was limited almost strictly to the Kironide itself. It’s like alcohol when it burns on your skin, it creates that protective layer until it evaporates off. Again that’s not the standard isotope, but all things considered I’d say you ought to consider yourself quite fortunate.”

Garak _did_ consider that as he absently flexed his hands in the restraints. But Julian isn’t finished and it’s that next bit that leaves him with strangely half sick feeling. 

“You ah... you might not want to look at your hair for awhile. We did the best that we could, but it’s are different than skin and well... You’re a tailor, right? I’m sure you might be able to cobble together a hat or-”

“I’m not a hatter,” Garak interrupts primly, noticing that Julian seems to have to keep himself from making some remark at that comment. He decides right then he’s not even going to _think_ about looking at a mirror until Julian assures him that it’s clear. _Really, vanity at your age, Elim._ Still, Garak stares up at the wooden planks of the ceiling breathing in deeply, slowly, that meditative feeling washing over him. Now that he’s awake there seem to suddenly be so many things to consider that are now at play- his poor hair not withstanding- and it nearly makes him want to close his eyes and pass back out again. 

_Except of course you’ve sleep for the last three days and now you’re awake. If Julian is to be believed on his recount of the events, then it’s a miracle that the extra activity, the strain to your neurological system didn’t give you a stroke. It seems unlikely so far that anything he’s presented is false. Cleaned up perhaps in a misguided but well meaning attempt to spare you any additional trauma, but you ought to be thankful that he didn’t leave you in the caves to burn to death._ Which makes Garak wonder how they even escaped with the flames blocking the entrance. He asks Julian and is left almost in awe as Julian describes the heroics of Yoshi and Molly in carrying the two of them to safety from one of the exits points at the top of the cave opening. Apparently Jadzia had stressed her shoulder in carrying Nog, though according to Julian ,she’d only herself to blame by stubbornly refusing to let Keiko help.

Garak takes another few moments to process all of that information while Julian sits back somewhat anxiously.

“And I suppose, the… incident in question brings us to the matter of my current indisposition.”

“I’m afraid that Nog insisted. I’m sure you can imagine he’s taking this quite hard.” _Yes, I’d imagine having to share the ship with the flaming lizard monster that murdered the remainder of his comrades and his significant other might make one a bit disturbed. But he isn’t the only one with reason to be wary. Though he glossed over it rather neatly, what you’d done to Julian, cognizant or not isn’t anything to be taken lightly._

“And what about the others?” Garaks asks cautiously prepared for any amount of enmity that could possibly be directed his way.

“Keiko understands but still thinks there ought to be some sort of reparation for what’s happened though to who or how there’s not telling. She agreed that it was better to keep you restrained but only so far as we can assess your mental state. I think if Molly and Yoshi had seen more than just me looking a bit roughed up they might be more inclined to call for your head, but the last they saw of you was a fiery screaming mess that Yoshi was trying to extinguish with his coat… And once I told him you were a tailor of the highest order, by the way, he insisted you provide him with a superior replacement.” That last statement leaves Garak somewhat in awe of the easily forgiving nature of those he’s traveling with, though he’s hardly so naïve as to think the reception amongst Starfleet and the rest of the town may be quite so welcoming. _Looks like you’ll be another another name to the list of those who wish to see you “brought to justice” in some fashion or another._

“You have my word that I will leave no effort unspent in the pursuit of making proper reparations to your son and his beloved coat.” Julian stops just short of slapping a hand over his mouth and Garak is both mystified and horrified at the ease in which he so easily spoke a secret he knew to still be carefully concealed amongst the rest of the world.

He’s tempted to chalk it up to a mere slip of the tongue, but in all his years of work, Elim Garak has _never made_ such an egregious slip of the tongue. He can feel his face pale slightly, wondering if there weren’t in fact, neurological side effects after all. That’s a risk that he cannot take under any circumstances. Especially in light of the reality that there is someone off world, or even possibly operating onworld who clearly has every intention of assassinating him. He’s also completely lost contact with the Order and really, there very well may no longer even _be_ an Order. Which is problematic. He may very be needed desperately back on Cardassia Prime, mission or no, and depending on the situation there may have been a recall that was intercepted. An emergency. Or it’s bunch of nonsense and Tain will have his hide for even daring to return without completing what’s necessary. _But what_ _is_ _necessary, Elim? As long as you’ve been here, you haven’t been able to figure it out. You might consider, if your mission was the locate the drop shipment to destroy it if necessary but playing ignorant has never held any swap with Tain. You could argue both points back and forth until the Ancients return and you’ll be no closer to making a decision. One thing is certain for the time being you can’t return to Indigo. You need to time things to settle. And as for-_

“And as for Jadzia, well she’s been trying to get in to see you, terribly worried but without knowing your state that wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. But given what’s happened and a few concerns that I still have, I have a proposition, for you.” Julian’s voice interrupts that monologue and he finds himself intrigued. Perhaps this is, as the Bajorans would superstitiously declare, the will of the Prophets to guide him to where he should go. And so he listens carefully as Julian details his concerns for his brain and the logistical impracticalities of trying to treat him on world. The conclusion would then seem to lead to going off world to have him looked at, but in light of Julian’s status as a fugitive, that’s immediately struck down. 

“There may be, however,” Julian hedges looking anxiously, “A man in Central who might be able to assist, since he’s helped me with matters in the past. I can have Molly drop us in East Station on the other side of the pond where we can make the transfer. I’ve got a fair bit of capital I keep here for emergencies that should get us by though we may have to wash a few dishes of perform on a few street corners. That is if you’re willing to trust me.” Julian looks anxious for his answer, as if he’s spent a deal of time replaying this in his head trying to guess at Garak’s reaction. Garak, however, can find no better alternative at the moment. If nothing else he’ll have time to think, to consider his next course of action with that little side trip. He nods, a wan smile on his face, feeling a bit lightheaded as he does. Yes, he’ll definitely need to eat something soon.

“My dear Julian, I would be absolutely delighted.”

And with those words spoken he sees the lock of the door click open, the door swinging wide, Jadzia standing there with a big grin on her face.

“Great! So when do we start packing?”


	46. The Lawless Breed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hateful Eight meet again to further their plans for Garak's demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, another non Garak chapter. But it's been awhile since we've looked in on our Hateful Eight and they have plenty to be hateful about. I also was pleased to have gotten to write one of the few scenes that's been i my head from the get go and that being the scene with Gul Dukat and his wife. I had to make up everything about her but the name but I enjoyed it.She's been weirdly fun to play with. Happy to have this out a bit early and stay tuned for a lot more craziness once our Trio hits Central. Thank you everyone for your support and encouragement and C&C is always welcome!
> 
> Also, since it's been about 20 chapters a quick index card on Dukat's children:  
> Ziyal 28/f  
> Tekenny 26/m  
> Nelissa 25/f  
> Mekor 21/m  
> Zorana 20/f  
> Oranda 17/f  
> Kasella 12/f (twin)  
> Illiana 12/f (twin)

His look is dark as he enters the large parlor. The door closes hard behind him and seven sets of eyes turn in rapid succession. Mekor looks at them angrily, swallowing it down as he walks stilted to the open space at the low table next to Zorana. He sits down hard on the floor, the silence stretching out amongst them all, each daring the others to speak first. Nelissa looks down at him from her seat on the sofa, in uniform, watching the time almost anxiously. Tekenny smirks at him for just a moment from where he writes on the PADD. Ziyal sighs, seeing that no one is going to break that silence, and she stands from her seat on the sofa walking over to him. She kneels beside him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Mekhor-“ she begins only to have him shrug that touch off irritably. They all know that he’s failed. That failure is written clearly on his face. The twins both unsuccessfully hide giggles from behind their hands and Oranda snaps at the both of them to be quiet.

“If the children can’t behave themselves during an adult meeting maybe they should leave.” She looks up from the PADD she’s reading disdainfully, sniffing with a toss of her head.

Kasella mimics her speaking loudly to Illiana.

“It’s because he’s a man, you know,” She suggests smugly.

“A woman wouldn’t fail.” Illiana agrees.

“Men have no head for types of complicated things. Right Zora?” Kasella smiles sweetly, the two of them ignoring Mekor’s half irritated hiss. Nelissa snorts disdainfully at the figure he presents. His shoulders are tense, eyes angrily focused on the table. Zorana pushes a tepid cup of tea in front of him.

“The success or failure of the outcome was entirely on your shoulders, Mekor, I hope you don’t think that you still don’t owe me for the assistance I’ve given you.” She drinks slowly, making a few notes on her own PADD, spidery encryption forming at the conclusion of each word.

“I would prefer that we speak of the matter another time, sister.”

“You might, but we all agreed to complete transparency since our last meeting.” Zorana looks over to Oranda pointedly. “To avoid any further accusations of collaboration. You know what I need, Mekor. I need the names of those officials-”

“Do you have any idea what this has done to my standing? Do you realize what I had to do? What lies that I had to tell to receive cooperation from the Nyissan government? If father should ever find out-”

“Don’t the Ferengi tell that you can’t have big gains without big risks?” Tekenny teases him looking up from that PADD impishly.

“The Ferengi can rot with the Ancients! You don’t have the burden of Father breathing down your neck!” The twins jump as he stands up and raises his voices. Ziyal steps back trying to settle him with little success. Illiana and Kasella whisper hurriedly their soft esoteric language between the two of them as Mekor advances. Tekenny doesn’t move, looking up with disinterest from where he leans against the wall. Ziyal is still trying to quiet him, a hand on his arm.

“Mekor… _brother_ , you’ll never know how much I truly, deeply appreciate everything that you’ve sacrificed for me, _please_ don’t fight with Tekenny, you know he’s just teasing you.” She shoots a glare at the elder who clicks his tongue.

“He shouldn’t worry about me, anyway. If mother hears your tirade brother, the Ancients will be the least of your concern.”

And as soon as the words are spoken, a hush falls over the room, everyone straining as if they actually hear Athra Dukat’s soft footfalls from down the hall.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Oranda says, already eyeing the closet door like a naughty child looking for a place to hide. “Zorana said that mother is out and won’t return until dark.”

“Better the servants don’t gossip either, _sit down_ Mekor. Tekenny is right. You thought you’ll kill him and you failed. Two agents are lost to the Nyissan Empire, but you know how to smooth things over, you’ve watched father often enough to play that diplomat’s game. I need the names of those officials involved in the coup, and you don’t need to know the reason why; it’s a separate matter entirely.”

“Strong words from the first to fail,” Nelissa scoffs with a toss of her head. Zorana smiles back at her, a smile that might be considered sweet on any of her sister’s faces but appears chilling on hers.

“Who says I’ve failed, sister? Once the snake falls from the bounty set, all victory belongs to me. Unless you think you fair any better?”

“I think,” Nelissa stands with an arrogant swagger remnant of Gul Dukat himself, “that the intelligence I was able to gather will prove far more valuable than yours could ever hope to be.”

“Oh?” Zorana raises a brow ridge sipping that tea serenely. “Subtlety from my elder sister, you really _do_ cover father’s favor don’t you?”

“You aren’t the only one with your hands in the world of espionage and lies, Zorana You don’t think that the Second Order doesn’t also have its ears?” She smiles nastily giving an inclination of her head to each of her siblings. “Let’s not waste time today, _I’m_ going to end this before the next new moon falls on the horizon.”

“You’re going to end it yourself?” Oranda laughs haughtily, tossing her hair over one shoulder looking artfully out the window. I think I’ll wait right here. It won’t be long before you come slithering back in disgrace and I already know exactly how I’m going to end that miserable snake. Why don’t we save ourselves the time and let me go first? What do you say, dear sister, I’ll even make sure that Father tosses you a few crumbs as my way of thanks.”

“Say that again, v _ine’uja,_ ” Nelissa snarls.

“Nelissa!” Ziyal’s eyes are wide at the insult. Kasella gasps and Illiana follows suit. Tekenny nearly drops the PADD while Mekor raises a brow ridge. Zorana continues to sip her tea as her long thin fingers make more notes. Oranda’s face is flushed, the ridges around her eyes dark, her mouth tight and silent.

“Don’t scold me, Ziyal. She should be thankful I come at her with words and not my weapon.”

“You’ve always underestimate me, Nelissa” Oranda shoots back, finding her voice. “You and Zorana both. Lest you forget I’m also father’s daughter and just as capable.” Oranda smiles prettily with a toss of her long plaited hair. “But then again I wouldn’t expect you to know what it’s like to be either  beautiful _or_  intelligent.”

“Nelissa is capable, Oranda, and a welcome sight for those in the Second Order who appreciate the beauty in strength.” Tekenny holds up his hands, stepping carefully in the space between the both of them before Nelissa can advance. “But we know the Snake hasn’t stayed alive all these years by luck.” He looks at them pointedly. “He’s done it by cunning, by calculating his enemies, by turning them against each other so that he can pick them off one by one. Now I…” He slowly floats back behind the sofa with an irreverent wave of his hand. “…can say with complete certainty that even if I present Elim Garak’s-” he pauses for the angry hiss at that name- “head for Father’s birthday that it won’t hardly make a bit of difference as to my standing.”

“There is no need to flaunt your defiance, brother, we are all well aware of it.”

“Dear Mekor, I’m certain that once this settles you’ll be back to your beloved boot licking in no time but as for the Snake in the present… Let’s all give our beloved Nelissa her shot at glory.” He presents the floor back, a lazy but dangerous look to the rest daring them to object. Ziyal breathes an audible sigh of relief. Nelissa shoots a final venomous glare at Oranda before drawing herself up.

“It _will_ be me. Just remember that when I get back.”

“Oh ho, you’re going to that miserable place yourself? You really do have more guts than brains!”

“Oranda…” That warning comes from Zorana, having set her tea down looking up seriously. “What are you planning, Nelissa?”

“I’m not stupid enough to go anywhere near that black hole of a planet myself. But I won’t have to.” Nelissa smiles nastily. “Like I said before, you’re not the only one with connections, Zorana. I have my sources in the Federation and there’s talk about a half Klingon Officer taking sudden leave to chase his wife to Westworld.”

That bit of information snaps Zorana from her usual indifference, her posture straightening as she makes notes furiously on the PADD.

“And the significance?”

“The word from my contact is the Klingon when he got there that his whore of a Trill wife, the infamous Dax was sleeping with a strange Cardassian man in that nowhere town where the Snake was assigned. Now who does _that_ reminds us of?” There’s a sudden disruption as Ziyal knocks over a stone sculpture with a jerk of her foot, quickly picking it up. She ducks her head embarrassed as she resets it.

“That can’t _possibly_ bother you!” Oranda exclaims loudly. Ziyal furiously shakes her head.

“No, of course not! Never! I just... I don’t know I-”

“It’s the nature of the heart, little sister,” Tekenny interjects sagely. “Though I don’t expect that a woman with _your_ disposition would ever understand such matters.”

“Fsssh! The two of you ought to dance off into the dessert with your poetry and art,” Oranda sneers disdainfully.

“And leave poor mother and father in a cultural void with the lot of you? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Enough,” Zorana speaks softly, making a few more notes on the PADD. “For the record I’m keeping, Nelissa, what is the proposed method of execution? It wouldn’t be fair if the Snake were to break his neck riding some Westworld beast and have you claim victory.”

“Like I would ever stoop to some dishonorable lie like some of you,” She shoots a look to Mekor and Oranda. “It’s simple. We take his woman.” There’s an eruption of laughter in the room, from the high pitched squeals of the twins to Tekenny’s rich tenor. Ziyal as well cannot help but hide a smile and a small chuckle behind her hand at the thought of one such as the Snake ever selflessly risking his hide for something as fleeting as lover. Zorana and Nelissa are the only ones who share silence in that raucous and when the noise dies down, Illiana having fallen on the roll holding her stomach in a fit of giggles, Zorana clears her throat and speaks quietly enough that they’re forced to listen.

“I told you they lacked vision, Sister,” she says then appears thoughtful. “But now I know why you requested _that_ particular compound. Take care with it; it was hard to come by and will be a waste of my resources if not properly administered.” Mekor turns to look at her shrewdly, his eyes narrowing.

“So it was not just me with whom you had an agreement.” He says before Nelissa can answer. He looks between the two of them. “My, sister, you had been so _affronted_ at what you called our collusion. I am surprised to hear this.”

“Be silent, Mekor. Any good general knows the value of alliances. And you let _me_ worry about my own plans, Zorana. Two might have disgraced himself, but not for lack of _skill_.” She refers to her second in command having dismally failed to make it in the Obsidian Order, saved from obscurity solely by his father’s influence. Nelissa was insistent he serve under her. His talents in interrogation far outweigh any personality quirks; one of which is to insist that he still be called “Two”.

“Of course our cunning sister wants to ensure that no matter who the victor, she also wins, isn’t that right, Zorana?” Oranda looks at her with a grudging admiration. “Well I’ll tell you right now, _I_ don’t want your help and I fully intend to murder the snake without help from any of you.”

“If you have the chance, _sister,”_ Nelissa taunts with that proud strut. “Of course the snake isn’t rescuing anyone. It’s not in the plan. What _is_ in the plan is his woman “escaping” our trap. The Trill is clever and strong and no one will question an escape if we’re careful about it. But it won’t just be _her_ that will be going back to him. She’ll be bringing his death with her. We’ll have her stab him in the throat. Let’s see that tongue of his talk his way out of that!”

“How characteristically violent of you, sister. So then I take it we’re adjourned?” Tekenny moves to leave while Oranda still sulks sullenly. There’s an uneasiness that hovers around Ziyal that she shakes off quickly.

“Yes, mother should still be out but we certainly don’t want to risk her overhearing. We’ll meet again should the snake still live but I don’t imagine we’ll be seeing each other again.” She rises slowly, Mekor looking speculative as she does.

“And then what will Nelissa be giving you as repayment, dear sister?” Zorana glances idly at the PADD as if she had somehow forgotten such an important detail.

“The terms were quite modest really. Nothing more than a few items of medical contraband intercepted from an Orion freighter. Bio mimetic gel and some others that you’d find of little interest.”

“I am sure…” he murmurs but says little else. “Then it would seem we do not have anything further to discuss. If you will excuse me, I need to return to my duties. There is a lot I need to smooth over and Father was insistent that I draft his next proposal to the Council.”

“If there are no objections,” Zorana looks around, a few more notes to the PADD before she blacks the screen out. “Then it’s settled.” She smiles at Ziyal, an expression strangely not unnatural on her usually cold face. “Rest assured, dear Ziyal, we’ll destroy the Snake just yet.”

 

They file out, one by one until the parlor is deserted. But the monitor remains, the camera carefully placed in the corner showing the entire scene as they leave. From behind the desk, Skrain Dukat looks up at his pacing wife with a proud smile.

“You see, how my children love me?” he boasts grandly, glancing once more to the empty room. “You see how they vie so passionately for my affections. Do you know, how close I came to publicly censuring Mekor for that disaster with the Nyissan government? If it weren’t for your insistence on monitoring that room I might have made a grievous error.” He looks up to his wife, to Athra Dukat stopped beside the desk looking at the screen darkly. Her face is plump, only showing the faintest traces of her age even as her sensual lips are pursed in disapproval. Her hair is pulled back and woven carefully back with ribbons of pastel color, a splash of pearls imported from the Federation dotting lace that blends with the few gray strands it pulls in. Her arms are crossed over her bosom, the neck of her pale mauve gown high but tight. Her figure is full, but not matronly, a generous body that he still eyes with lust even in her anger; perhaps because of it.

“I didn’t tell you about my suspicions so your ego could sponge itself even larger,” she chastises him severely. “I was concerned when I first caught wind of their conversation, and I was right. This is going to make a mess of their careers. They need to focus on _work_. Mekor nearly caused an incident with this last stunt and as far as Nelissa has risen in the Second Order…”

“My dear Athra,” Dukat interjects as he rises from his seat, “you bear a mother’s worries, but try to understand a Father’s pride.” He puts his hands on her shoulders and she pulls away irritated with a hard slap to his hands.

“Pride? I had _hoped_ that you would have the sense to put a stop to this nonsense, but as always you can’t see anything past your own nose. Our family has made a lot of sacrifices, willingly, _gladly_ because your ambitions are for the good of all of us but _this_? This is ridiculous. They’re convinced themselves that whoever kills that man is going to somehow curry some nebulous favor of yours at the expense of the rest. I love _all_ of our children, Skrain. Not just those who bend the farthest to lick your boots.”

“As do I, as do I,” he assures her with a wave of his hand, “But your dark little world view is all that you’re able to see. Didn’t you tell me once that your were afraid our pure blood children would never accept a Bajoran whore’s bastard? And yet you see how they come to the defense of their sister.”

“There are better ways to encourage the unity of our family than this dangerous death game,” she retorts, dark blue eyes narrowing. “I said to you before that you should have had that man killed the moment he betrayed Ziyal.”

“You and our little Oranda, you both have such little understanding of romantic notions. You would have had me act sooner than that even. But we had to give her _time_ , Athra. We had to wait, let her grow cold towards him and now, _now_ you see she's just as eager as any of them to see him slain." She looks up in irritation to his satisfied smirk with a huff. But she doesn't argue the point.

"Someone is going to end up hurt. Or leaving us in a dangerous position. They're too young, they're too reckless. Look at what happened with Mekor." She takes a step back when he approaches again. "Are you going to clean up the mess he left? The Nyissan Ambassador is still demanding to know why two of their most promising operatives are dead from a _training_ exercise- a lazy lie at that. And worse, in pursuit of a man who supposedly doesn't even exist. That was Zorana's work, you can be sure of it."

"You sound as if you don't trust me to handle the situation." Dukat is genial as he easily crosses that distance between them. But he's wary, cautious, seeing the way her hand hovers in the air. Athra Dukat has always been known to carry no less than two serrated daggers on her at any given moment and is more than capable of using them skillfully. His hand flexes absently, the scars on his forearm giving a phantom ache.

"How many times has my trust in you led to suffering for our family?" she challenges.

"No more than it has led to our success!"

He raises his voice, a fire in his eyes and his belly when their eyes meet. She wets her lips as she looks at him, nostrils flaring slightly, a darkening color to the ridges of her face. Athra can see it on his as well and there's a small smile that appears on her lips as she circles him slowly, retreating just a bit in a careful dance, an extra sway to her hips as she does.

"By the State, you find their slavish devotion arousing, don't you?"

"No more than your sharp tongue," he answers thickly, advancing cautiously. He thinks he sees a flash of silver when there's little more than a quick step between them.

"My tongue is not all that's sharp, Skrain," she warns with just a hint of deadly playfulness underlying that threat. She's subtly directed their movements so that his back is nearly to the wall. He's allowed it, waiting, anticipating, that heat between them growing until he moves first. He grabs her wrist, knowing that she'll duck under his arm and comes back around. He's able to deflect a slash to his face, a hiss escaping him as the blade still catches the back of his hand. He sees the breathless smile on her face for just a moment as he pins her to the wall, covering her back with his body

"Your tongue is not all that I find arousing," he breathes against the back of her neck feeling her shiver beneath him as the words tickle the sensitive ridges.

"And yet you've gotten not hard, but soft.” She still holds the knife in her hand, knuckles against the wall. They tighten on that grip. “Ten years ago I'd have never been able to so clumsily strike you." He chuckles at that, slowly insinuating a hand between them caressing her back, hand trailing down the soft form fitting gown even lower as he cups her round bottom.

“Ten years ago you’d have gone for my kidney.”

“Perhaps I was concerned you may no longer possess the reflexes to deflect a blow from behind.” Dukat growls and exerts pressure on the wrist pinned behind her back slowly until she releases the knife with an angry hiss. His other hand gives a generous squeeze that makes her gasp. 

“You think so little of my manhood, Athra?”

“So help me if you damage the blade-”

“Then I’ll buy you a hundred new ones.”

“What man sends his children to fight his battles for him?”

“A man who has bred the eight finest servants to the State that the Empire has ever seen.”

“Servants to himself.”

“Someday, the two shall be synonymous.”

“How can a man conquer an empire when he cannot even conquer his own wife?”

“Who’s to say she’s not already conquered?”

Their eyes meet in a flash as he releases her arm and hikes up that dress finding her nude beneath it.

“Who’s to say, she’s not always ready for me at a moment’s notice,” he murmurs in a husky voice while his hand is quick with the button of his trousers. She smiles at him demurely, with a drop of her eyes, hands braced to that wall, one still gripping the knife hilt.

“Just remember, husband, a conquered nation will devour a despot who grows weak.”

“She says as she trembles weakly, already wet from my touch.”

“He says as he’s already fully everted.”

“Hold your tongue, Athra, or I might forget to be gentle.”

“You’re never gentle.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” he whispers as he enters her hard, rough, driving the breath from her as he does. “I’m always gentle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help a bit of the cheesiness and GoT-esque feel to the ending bit with Athra and Dukat. It was a temptation that I cheerfully gave into. But next chapter back to Garak so hopefully no one's too disappointed.


	47. Drifting Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief respite in Central reveals a new mystery afoot!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this week to set the upcoming stage. Gonna try and work on kicking the pacing up again so wish me luck. Poor Garak. forced to spend his days cooped up in a lavish hotel with only Julian and Jadzia for company. Yeah, totally don't feel bad for him. Spoiler alert, we may start to see some residents of Indigo sooner than you think. Thank you all for your support and reading! C&C is always welcome.

“I’m not sure that I want to know what’s on your face or why you’re wearing it.” Julian shoots Jadzia a look as she innocently sips her lemonade. “Though I think I only need one guess as to who suggested it.” Garak looks out at him from behind the fake frames still struggling to breathe properly from the prosthetic over his nose. He also finds the synthetic fibers of the “mustache” which is attached to be somewhat distracting against his skin. He too looks at Jadzia, absolutely certain that he doesn’t trust that look of innocence as far as he can throw it.

“It was Yoshi’s suggestion,” she answers with a small smile as Julian looks at him again with a shake of his head, a laugh working its way up.

“God, what I wouldn’t give to be in Federation space right now to get a picture of this…”

“Does it really look so ridiculous?” Garak glances at his reflection in the looking glass on the wall behind him not seeing a terrible amount of difference between his own made up visage and half the humans milling about on the street. Julian sighs and swipes the gag glasses, nose and all, from his face.

“I guarantee you that you’re going to attract far more attention in such a ludicrous getup than you ever will just walking around normally.”

“Really, Julian? Are you forgetting the looks that have been following us since we left East Port? Or perhaps the overzealous lot of bounty hunters who forced the train to a stop midway here. Ah, but wait, I believe there’s something else that I’m forgetting…” Garak takes a few exaggerated steps, recalling the complete fiasco it had been even getting to Central. Julian sighs, taking his tea from the small dining table of their shared room, sitting down.

“We handled it, didn’t we?” he asks calmly. Garak wonders what’s in the tea that he’s drinking to keep him so calm, but as he looks at Jadzia’s relaxed and easy air sitting in the chair with the loosely belted robe, he supposes it’s that human custom referred to as the morning after. The both of them are strutting around as they’re on some sort of decadent vacation and not hurriedly making their way Julian’s mysterious friend under the cover of darkness in the hopes of further investigating his possibly brain malady. There’s also the matter of Garak’s own investigation into the Cardassians trying to murder him, but he’s had little to go on without returning to Cardassia Prime.

The light streaming in through the open window is almost sickening in its cheeriness and Garak steps away, only now realizing what a foolish action it was of him to stand there in the first place where a bullet could so easily pierce his skull.

“As loathe as I am to even think, let alone say it, it would seem that the visually challenged residents of your delightful planet all seem inexorably convinced that I bear a perfect resemblance to that disgusting visual rendition of a Cardassian crossed with a regnar- and a particularly foul looking regnar at that.”

“Luckily for you, we happen to find foul looking regnar rather inviting,” Julian teases with a smirk, taking one of the rich pastries- some delightfully sweet fruit filled spiral that’s iced generously. It calls to him, really, but yesterday’s stomach ache warns him away and instead towards the thick porridge instead that occupies his place. Jadzia swears the kitchen recommended it for Cardassian digestion; he’s not certain how comfortable he is with her discussing his digestive issues with strangers. Garak cannot prove it of course, but he swears the delicacy of his stomach has to be the fault of that Kironide exposure. Julian had postulated it was the subconscious aversion to the “cheese” inside the danish. But it hadn’t seemed like any bovine fermentation that Garak had ever tasted. Garak cannot help but watch as Jadzia snatches a piece of that pastry unrepentantly from Julian’s plate- the last red one, he notes- with slight irritation at their inactivity.

“I’d thought,” he continues determined not to be distracted by two scantily clad humans playing with their food, “that I might venture out and try to gather more information on the situation and your contact. There also seems to be a fair stream of off worlders egressing and engressing at any given moment through these watering holes as close as we are to that nauseating exit gate. I cannot help but feel that we’re missing out on vital chances.” Garak finds himself distracted by Jadzia licking red jam from her fingers, crossing a leg. Perhaps the failing isn’t theirs, but his. The sight of Julian looking up at him over those familiar spectacles, hair damp and tussled from a shower is equally unnervingly distracting. It’s also quite possibly more of that mental malaise or some other brain disease making it difficult to think of anything but crawling back to bed with his two devious accomplices. The bed is comfortable, after all and quite large. Julian had requested some “tri” something or other room two nights ago with a duck of his head and a cough that made Garak quite curious. And that curiosity was quickly assuaged when they entered, seeing the obscenely massive bed that lay beyond the neat sitting room. Garak had immediately questioned how they could possibly afford such accommodations when Jadzia cheerfully informed them she had easy access to a bank account here. Not necessarily _her_ bank, mind, but Garak had left that alone in light of the beautiful room and the blissfully warm bathtub.

It would seem to him, however, that the draw of luxurious city comforts is severely impairing their judgment. It makes him once more irrationally suspicious, but again, that too is likely not the result of mere caution but verging into unsafe paranoia. Granted, it’s always been that innate sense of question of his surroundings that has kept him alive for so long, but in his current state, he has been forced to acknowledge that he might not be able to fully trust that instinct. It’s unsettling on the whole. Julian’s silent study of him is also making him bristle, knowing that physician’s mind is working to deduce some malady real or otherwise to explain away “the lizard’s irrational mood swings” as he’d overheard to Jadzia. At least he thinks that’s what he heard. Garak sits down heavily on the sofa with a glower at Julian.

“Please, spare me any more clinical hypothesizing, I don’t think that I’m feeling up for that analytical medical scrutiny right now.” Julian shakes his head as he takes another sip of tea.

“I was just thinking,” he informs Garak with that maddening calm reserved for those fragile minds that might break at any moment, “That you look rather fetching in that attire.

Garak looks down at himself, not exactly inclined to disagree- it was nice to actually make use of some of the finer vanity garments he’d packed on a whim when they went west. After all, a trek in the desert was no excuse for poor appearance and he wanted to be prepared should he need to look a little less roguish. He’s never been particularly inclined to blue, but the brilliant blue velvet is a rather nice accent to his eyes. He’s grown somewhat tired of the starched white shirts that some of the real gung ho period enthusiasts wear like uniforms and gone in favor of a pale gold. He’s quite fond of it, having tailored the piece itself, though he found the pants to be more snug than he’d have expected. Neither Julian nor Jadzia seemed to have any complaints. But the appreciative leers of his lovers aside- Lovers? Guls what has he gotten himself into- the subject of his attire is not particularly productive. He drums his fingers irritably on his leg, going to pick up his notebook from the coffee table when he notices with a flicker of the upper part of his eye that the two of them exchanges a quick whispered conversation.

That gesture by Julian to the stack of news clippings and other papers catches his attention and Julian is already up as well. It’s a mad scramble that ensues as Garak begins flinging papers looking for whatever it is he assumes that he’s not supposed to see while Julian attempts to grab them and presumably hurl them into some imagined fire. Perhaps he’ll stuff them down his shirt leading to an enjoyable little game but this time, Garak is quicker than those augmented reflexes as he catches sight of a print with Jadzia’s picture on it. His hands snatch it just as Julian abandons good sense and lunges over the coffee table at him. Garak half turns, paper still within his line of sight as Julian comes crashing into him. His body still has a pleasant damp from the shower though Garak isn’t sure that he entirely approves of that wet transferring to his clothes. He grins triumphantly, unrepentant, reading the bulletin and Julian just buries his face in Garak’s shoulder with a groan.

“Carefuly, my dear, we wouldn’t want Yoshi to have to fetch you yet another pair of spectacles.” He thinks that Julian tells his shoulder to shuttup though he isn’t sure, his attention firmly focused on that page.

 

“Wanted Alive: 

Jadzia Dax 

2500 bars Gold Pressed Latinum”

 

 _Well now, that certainly explains his reluctance to have you read it. It also explains why we’ve spent the last few days holed up here. But the better question is why and how._ Garak turns his head, realizing that Julian seems content to continue half laying on him like a hound grown far too big for its master’s lap. He sighs and appropriately scratches Julian behind the ears. There’s a odd contented humming vibration and makes him smile in spite of himself. Garak sees Jadzia smiling at him a bit sheepishly.

“I am aware,” Garak says feeling as if he’s speaking to two children and not his peers, “that you are attempting to see to my well being and as much as that sentiment is appreciate I might remind you both that _I_ am the master tailor. It’s difficult to sew the appropriate costume without all the necessary notions and fabrics.”

“Maybe we just wanted to enjoy a little time with you before returning home,” Jadzia answers smartly, a smile behind that pastry. Garak can’t help but chuckle.

“Ah. But there is a myriad of delights awaiting us upon our return, my possible imprisonment, your charming husband, and Julian’s-”

“Julian’s nothing’” is muffled into his shirt before Julian lifts a rumpled head and fogged lenses. It really strikes him in that moment that Julian is particularly, what the humans would call “kissable”. Garak finds that thought to be rather disturbing.

“But you’re right,” Julian says while Garak debates whether or not giving himself a good knock in the head will cure him. “It’s just that-”

“ _Don’t_ say you didn’t want to worry me,” Garak declares holding up a hand. “We need to consider this carefully.” He looks at the poster again. “They don’t provide bounty information to civilians, do they? Not as far as the issuer?” He’s certain of the answer as the two of them nod. He could use Odo in his pocket right about now.

“It’s hardly matters though, does it?” Julian asks. “I mean it’s pretty obvious that given the incidents we’ve had in the last few days getting here that the authorities or whoever else surely think we’re part of some outlaw gang. I’ll be surprised if I don’t see my own picture up in the next few days.” And what he says makes sense, of course. But that’s just the beauty of it, and that’s what makes Garak immediately question it. As Julian said, his own picture should be up as well. It’s also quite suspect that it specifically calls for her to be brought in alive. The culture onworld might trend towards the historical where dress and mannerisms are concerned but he’s noticed there’s no lack of egalitarianism where conflict comes into play. The last four overzealous bounty hunters that attacked them at the transfer station held no compunctions where it came to shooting at Jadzia.

And in the end it may very well be chalked up to one of his many character failings but the mere fact that Julian is so easy to dismiss any ulterior motive is exactly why Garak is not. It is that obstinance, that reactive opposition that’s given more than a few of his superiors fits over the years, but his record of success speaks for itself. And brain malady or not, Garak would willingly stake everything on this being some other subterfuge that he’s yet to divine. As a matter of fact… He looks at Jadzia.

“Well, I don’t profess to know all of this world’s quaint little customs but could it be possible that your husband thought to take precautions to ensure that you didn’t run too far?” Julian snorts. Jadzia shakes her head.

“His pride wouldn’t let him do something like that, if anything he’d come here himself if he knew this is where I was.  But I think you’re right. I think there might be something else going on.” Garak is not particularly relieved by the knowledge that any moment there may be an angry half Klingon barreling through the door. He pushes that to the side making sure to remain on alert. He hadn’t gotten a good look, but Jadzia’s husband hardly strikes him as a man who would be a master of disguise.

“So then who else would have reason to set a bounty for Jadzia’s capture?” Julian actually appears thoughtful as he sits up and rearranges himself besides Garak. Garak misses the warmth though not the hard elbows or knee digging into him. The three of them take time to consider that, all aware that Jadzia’s colorful escapades may very well have resulted in any number of individuals or even gangs, corporations or conglomerates seeking her capture. But the very convenience of that wide array of culprits coupled with the timing leads him back to his initial suspicion. And that is that it’s completely related to the mysterious would be assassin. And given that-

“Well,” Jadzia says, standing up with a cheerfully determined mischief. He can see whatever comes next that her mind is already made up. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” He sighs in response as she begins to detail a few of the lesser regarding places in Central that they might visit to begin information gathering once the sun goes down. Somehow, Garak had a feeling she was going to say that.


	48. Callaway Went Thattaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak joins Julian and Jadzia in searching out an old contact in Central. Who could it possibly be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyone following me on FB or tumblr may have seen the note. Ended up leaving the chapter at work last week not quite finished so I just let it go since I had so much other stuff to to work on. Back in the normal swing of things and there were a few bits I needed to flesh out anyway so it's all good. I'm super excited to be introducing this new arc/new character (but really an old familiar character :)) at the same time. A brief warning for some random rambling about marijuana in the Federation and on Westworld as well. Thank you all for your encouragement and support and C&C is always welcome!

There is no doubt about it; there’s something wrong with Garak’s brain. He doesn’t need Julian’s associate to confirm that for him. The mere fact that he’s standing in front of Jadzia, carefully arranging the high collar of her dress with little thought to anything but putting his mouth to her neck and unfastening those ornate little buttons is all the proof he needs. Julian had finally tired of his distraction while adjusting his tie and let him know that while he was more than happy to indulge in a bit of delay, _Garak_ was the one who insisted they abandon their easy search pace in favor of something far more aggressive. And to that, Garak was about to retort that of course he of all people wouldn’t forget that except that it was rather difficult to refute the point when his fingers were quite clearly making a study of Julian’s chest through the thin fabric of the shirt. He had, in some wilder moments of imagination wondered if he hadn’t somehow possessed some latent genetic material now causing these wildly out of place urges in his normally ordered mind but he’d dismissed that nonsense almost as soon as he’d thought it.

“You know what it likely is,” Julian says from behind him. Somehow Garak can feel his eyes, a study in amusement as Garak realizes belatedly that he’s been tasting Jadzia’s perfume in the air this entire time as if he were about to-

“I’m all ears, Julian,” Garak says forcing himself to take  step back.

“Well this is only a theory, mind you, and I can only speculate on the differences in the Cardassian and human brain but-“

“But?” Garak interrupts with an impatient huff.

“It appears you may be suffering an impulse control disorder.” Garak looks at him feeling his jaw drop just a slight bit before he claps it shut again a deep frown on his face. He’d almost sooner hear that he has scale rot like old Legate Aket who was rumored to have ingested several of his own neck ridges having fallen into his stew while he hosted a state function. Garak absently rubs his neck at the thought, a shiver up his spine. No, for all the inherent handicap that this new development proposes, it’s still preferable to _that_ old curse.

“An impulse control disorder?” he repeats carefully, just to be sure that in his infirmary he actually heard correctly.

Julian nods.

“It’s a bit difficult to tell since there are clear differences in Cardassian thought patterns, mannerisms, and habit but I think I’ve gotten to know you well enough… at least the you that you present for scrutiny…” Julian says giving him a _look_ that Garak returns with a beaming acceptance. “that I can see where your behaviors are definitely off that pattern.” Julian’s look clearly also says he hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Garak isn’t faking this entire bit for some nefarious plot or another. _Ah, would that that were the case._ “Now it doesn’t seem to be progressive, at least as far as I can tell. But I’ve definitely noticed that there are moments where you exhibit unusual impatience, unusual…” He trails off looking as if he’s trying to think of a delicate way to put it when Jadzia cuts in with a naughty little smirk.

“You’re a lot more open to enjoying our company instead of working,” she supplies, and as if to illustrate that point, his brain happily decides to focus on her mouth and that daring shade of violet lipstick. The dress she wears shows little skin but from the waist up that seems a moot issue, the brilliant aqua hugging her chest leaving her arms bare. The fabric practically shimmers, drawing attention just as it’s meant to. He recalls that his hands slide quite easily over it and he nearly sighs at she seems to read that very thought.

“I’m not complaining, Garak,” Jadzia says as a means of reassurance. Garak is not particularly reassured as he checks his pocket watch. It’s nearing twenty two hundred hours. He’s been restless in waiting, knowing that it will be best to begin their information gathering once the activity in Central is at its height. Julian had been chagrined to find that the man he’d been searching for hadn’t been seen in a few days. It would seem that his nameless doctor contact had taken to regularly gallivanting all over the city as his housekeeper informed Julian with disapproval. That hadn’t struck Garak as being particularly unusual but the degree to which it disturbed Julian was enough to raise his own suspicions. He wasn’t quite sure _why_ this was as Julian was unusually tacit on the subject. Jadzia, for her part knew little about it, but it seemed the man could frequently be found in some of the more colorful bars near the red light district. Again this bothered Julian immensely and Garak found any attempts at levity to be weakly received.

“I’m not complaining either,” he says with an appreciative look at her outfit, the top snuggle fit across equally fitted gray trousers, “but on the subject of our attire, are we perhaps overdressed for the district we’ll be frequenting?” It chafes him that he hasn’t been able to do any investigating on his own and he doesn’t enjoy having to rely on secondhand information.  Julian looks at him again somewhat critically.

“I would lose the vest. Perhaps more casual trousers, boots, not those shiny shoes.” Julian rolls up his sleeves and as an afterthought goes to the bathroom to finger comb some slick hair product through. He holds his arms out with a bit of a self deprecating smile. “So what do you think? Not too bad for an old man right?” Jadzia whistles appreciatively though the question was clearly directed more to Garak. He nods in response though he doesn’t let his eyes linger too long on his smartly dressed paramour lest the ideas he gets run towards the counterproductive again.

“Old man? I shudder to think what that make same then, I’m sure I’ve still got at least a decade on you, old man indeed.” He affects an air of mock affront, seeing Julian laugh.

“You weren’t so old last night.”

“Or the night before that.”

Jadzia walks past checking her boots. He’s certain that somewhere in the outfit she’s fully armed. Garak doesn’t envy whoever might happen to be pursuing her.

“But let’s put that energy to good use. We’ve got a list of three places that Julian’s friend frequents so I think we can cover ground quite well.”

“We’re not splitting up,” Julian says definitively, and Garak is inclined to agree. After all, this isn’t a world where they’re afforded the luxury of easy and instant communication devices.

“I can take care of myself, Julian.”

“As can I, but Garak is also a wanted man and if it’s all the same I’d just as soon not leave him _or you_ to your own devices.” Garak isn’t sure whether he should take that as a compliment or not. Here merely smiles and looks to Jadzia conspiratorially.

“Clearly, my dear, we’re not fit to look after ourselves.”

“You’re da right you’re not.” Julian is completely unrepentant for that slight as he walks to the coffee table and retrieves a map of the city. “We’re not under any time limit. There’s no need to rush. I can tell you that you’re in no danger of your condition worsening for the present. Now I _did_ leave a message with his housekeeper but I haven’t heard back and she said that he may very well not return for several more days.”

“Now if we start here at the Wet Whistle-“

“Wait.” Garak holds up a hand feeling that touch of intuition hitting him a bit belatedly. “How can you be certain that he wouldn’t be staying at any number of inns such as this or even keeping company with a partner?”

“The latter is certainly possible, but I’m sure he’ll want to be ah… getting the most of the human experience as possible.”

“The human…”

“You’re not serious!” Jadzia exclaims. “He’s here?!”

“He’s been here for some time now. Ever since the trial went the way that it did but you can understand _why_ it’s imperative that as few people know as possible.”

Garak listens to them politely discuss the man they both seem to know, growing more curious by the moment. 

“…has to stand out. It’s not every day that you encounter a-”

“So we’ll hit the ‘Wet Whistle” first, Julian says loudly, obviously and Garak nearly adopts that human gesture of exasperation in rolling his eyes. He stops just short of that.

“Yes, of course, we absolutely mustn’t let the insidious Cardie spy know anything about the man we’re looking for.

It’s a bit petulant but he finds that he doesn’t particularly care. Julian looks about to say something but stops. Instead he smirks at him in rather obnoxious superior sort of way that makes Garak long to clear that expression from his face- preferably with his mouth.

“I wouldn’t worry about being kept in the dark for too long, Garak. You’ll meet him soon enough.” And with that, Julian gives him what is- in his opinion- a rather patronizing pat on the shoulder before grabbing his garish black cloak to leave.

 

What amazes Garak the most about the night in Central is just how _bright_ it is. It’s more remnant of one of the wild stations he’s seen offworld with the constant lights and signs. It’s the first time that he’s ever seen the aether in a color that’s not blue, the city awash with both bright aether lights and gas lamps lining the carefully set in brick streets. He’s certain he appears like a tourist, head turning in all directions to see everyone’s elaborate costumes and dress from the more traditional historic wear to the exotic _metal_ _noveau_ as he’s heard it coined; those fashion plates a marriage of metalwork and cloth to an exotic effect. He attempts a few times to reign in such ridiculous impulses but after the fifth attempt, he surrenders himself to taking in as much of the scene as he can while they walk to the blandly named “Wet Whistle”. The building appears almost out of a cloud of shrubbery and black metal gates- possibly something as impractical as iron but he isn’t sure. In any case, the gates are open wide, a motley crew of individuals seated at patio table outside enjoying a live band playing on a raised stone dais.

At least Garak imagines it’s supposed to be what passes for music. The lows of the bass nearly set his teeth on edge and he winces as they pass a table comprised of both Ferengi and humans playing cards of all things. The table itself is unique with an array of mirrored glasses surrounding it, two men standing on either side of all players. From what Garak observes, as Jadzia stops to chat with the group, the aim seems to be one of sleight of hand rather than winning by traditional card rules.

“The winner is the one who cheats the best,” Julian murmurs to his ear, hands in his pockets. Garak nods, watching as Jadzia assist one Ferengi in particular in passing an ace to his partner, under the guise of saying hello to two old friends. She smiles impishly as she rejoins them, Garak about to ask what the point of that even was when a winner is announced and she shows several strips of latinum for her troubles. _Ah, so it would seem then that our drinks will be covered for this evening,_ Garak thinks with an admiration to her cunning. There’s an extra strut to her steps as she walks inside, and as a few heads turn. He thinks at first it’s because of the bounty but there are already a few men laughing raucously about it, telling her she can add it to the interstellar list that’s surely growing. Clearly, fugitive or not, her reputation precedes her.

And already she’s off once their feet hit the wooden floor, waving to the bartender- a Denobulan man by the look of him. They seem to know each other, though Garak has learned with Jadzia the odds are equally set for either scenario. She’s at the bar, a long wooden affair positioned along the wall in front of a steep staircase already ordering some impossibly large spiraled glass, the man expertly pouring a kaleidoscope of gold, red, and some silver something Garak swears is mercury but couldn’t possibly be. He has a brief flash of concern for the task at hand, but he can recall her playing tipsy to her advantage back in Indigo on more than one occasion and is sure that she knows what she’s doing. He takes a look around the room as two female Klingons call out to her that she better watch lest they decide to collect on her bounty. _Yes, just let them try…_ Though they seem to be on good terms and Garak takes the chance to look around the room. It’s a smaller space than he expected but judging from the size of the building from the outside along with the lights that he saw hidden behind curtains, he’s sure there are others. _Not holosuites but some other themes? Ah, patience, Elim, you’ll likely be exploring them all soon enough_.

“We’re going to have our work cut out for us tonight, aren’t we?” he says to Julian blandly. Julian just shakes his head already looking to the other corners of the room they’re in. There are a few tables arranged with other games, Tongo, Vulcan Chess, even a rather beautiful Kotra set up. He can see money baskets rigged to timers- locking baskets at that- to allow patrons the pleasure of extending their table rental with slips of latinum for play with a bell set to ring loudly at the end of time. _Clever._  Again one wall is not a table but a stool where a Lethean watches the lot of them, not needing to try particularly hard to look imposing. _Adequate security as well at least for the tables._ No one appears to be eating anything other than those salted snack legumes and some massive multicolored beverages. He recognizes the metal contraption behind the bar as some elaborate soda water machine and hopes he can actually get a real drink. Garak almost goes over to three seated Cardassians, seeing his kinsmen engaged in a rousing game; he’d never before seen a three way arrangement in kotra but then again he supposes that it’s theoretically possible. Garak drifts a few steps, seeing Julian scanning, not seeming to find who he’s looking for, turning his attention to a door at the back of the room and double doors off to the left of the warmly lit large.

“We may need to split up after all,” Julian says as Jadzia turns to them with a quick signal of her fingers. “He’s been here this evening, but he might not still be. I doubt he’d be in the basement but then again, he hasn’t quite been himself lately.”

“The… basement?” Garak asks still feeling the urge to sit down for a drink and conversation with real people. _Now that was an uncharitable thought…._ He sighs, Julian taking no notice.

“You go through that door in the back- the dance hall and then there’s a darker room, they smoke but it’s well ventilated.”

“Smoke?” Garak asks, recalling the few times he’s been onworld seeing a myriad of different paper tubes being inhaled with an exhale of some foul stench.  He hadn’t thought much about it until now.

“Yes, some old Earth custom- absolutely vile- terrible for your health, they’re the throwback from the vaping you see offworld but…” Julian trails off. Of course- no electricity, no batteries, no vaping devices. Garak is rather thankful he’s never become dependent on that chemical

“It’s amazing your species survived to warp capabilities.” Julian smiles.

“You wouldn’t be the first to make that observation.” He points back as if the walls separating the rooms don’t exist. “But the smoking room is some stuffy couch den and they’re usually all sorts of things that take place in the dark, not grass, grass is a separate room for well… obvious reasons but-“

“Grass?” Somehow that’s a term that’s escaped him though Indigo is hardly cosmopolitan. Julian looks thoughtful. “I don’t know if it’s banned in the Union. Had quite a time on Vulcan, if I recall there was quite a heated debate on the matter and I think they decided to neither encourage nor discourage its use…”

“Oh, you’re talking about the Tet’sa vape!” Garak finally nods in understanding. The name adapted from the human acronym THC. Garak could recall being confused by the human love of acronyms at first, wondering how some of those improbably words were supposed to be pronounced. It seemed the fellow who coined the term “Tet’sa had similar difficulty adapting that acronym to Cardassian language. Still, it was far more melodious than “grass”. “Really, it’s a plant? If you ask Central Command, half of those old fools swear it’s some insidious Federation mind control drug engineered by Section 31.”

Julian laughs at that.

“Hardly. Though I tend not to indulge myself, steadies my hand but makes my mind wander something dreadful because of the ah…” Julian coughs, both of them knowing he’s alluding to his enhancements. He seems to stop a moment, eyes brightening. “But you know we _are_ on somewhat of a vacation and if we don’t find Data tonight…” Julian scratches his chin thoughtfully then stops, suddenly realizing what he just said. There’s a quick whirl of his head that would be comical were it not for the look of horror in his eyes, having just the cat out of the bag so to speak. At first, Garak isn’t sure that he’s supposed to recognize that name at all but then it comes to him quite vividly. He’d been on Romulus at the time, undercover as a gardener, but still, the news had reached him as vast reaching as its consequences were. The humans had called it the new trial of the century- an allusion that meant little to him- when it was ruled that the android serving Starfleet, Lieutenant Commander Data was not in fact a sentient being. His target seemed to find that amusing, though he’d little to laugh about when Garak had arranged for him to “accidentally” find himself trapped under the deadly manchineel tree that he kept during a storm. The android had disappeared, the ruling overturned nearly a decade later, and his target was too disfigured to be properly identified without genetic records.

“I didn’t say that,” Julian blurts out as poor a liar as ever. Garak merely smiles, putting an arm around his shoulder, knowing full well the implications of an android still functioning onworld. There’s no way it should be possible but the very fact that it is alerts Garak to other possibilities as well.

“Don’t worry, my dear, your secret is safe with me.” And for Julian to waste those possibilities on something so mundane as a medical matter… Julian looks at him sideways, the lenses sadly blocking what he’s sure is a brilliant reflection of light in his eyes.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Garak, trust me. It’s a bad idea.” _Oh I’ll be the judge of that, my dear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone guess who it is? ;)


	49. Underground Rustlers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian and Data continue their search while Jadzia keeps watch on the bar and bartender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorty but I'm just pleased to be back on schedule. I'm excited for where we're going here and still working on exactly where we're going. I realized I'd already mentioned Data in the last chapter by name and then smacked myself for forgetting already. Ah well, anyway, no warnings here, I couldn't help the "pairing goes to a sex dungeon" trope but didn't want to get too mired down with that. It's always nice to have a convenient scene for sex though if i need to stall to flesh out ideas. Thank you all for reading, commenting, and supporting me, and C&C is always welcome!

“Julian, should I be concerned?” Garak murmurs those words softly to Julian at his side as they both see the door to the basement- both in location and in name in a glowing sign. They stand in the narrow constructed hall the glass separating them from the dimly lit “magic room” which is a sea of bodies, pillows, and music that does strange things to his equilibrium. Julian was able to find out as Garak’s eyes watered and throat burned from the hookah room prior that the android had in fact been spotted earlier that evening. Of course none of the people they spoke with seemed aware that they’d been speaking with an android, which he could understand perhaps given some of the patrons they’d been speaking with inhaling magic while a few others imbibed things far more exotic than that. When they encountered a man who swore the brightly colored pills gave him the highest highs he’d ever had, there was a strange part of Garak that was terribly curious. And why not? For all practical purpose his life was over so why not make the most of it. He’d had to wrestle with that impulse almost certain that might extend far beyond mere “impulse control” issues. Still, whatever the name Julian had had to refuse a bit more firmly on his behalf and then confiscate the few he’d managed to swipe. Damn observant augment.

But that news of Data’s presence had come from much earlier in the evening, and according to the half asleep human he tended to become restless and retire early on nights like these. Nights like these being where the bounty hunters come out full force and there isn’t a glare that exist in his plane that could fully encapsulate his feelings hearing that. That’s not to say he didn’t try, Julian putting his hands up begging ignorance. Garak had only sighed in response. It was a moot issue and what was life without a little risk, right? He would have liked to see Julian make that same argument were they talking augment hunters but Julian seemed suddenly anxious to find Data. It made him wonder if there wasn’t some bounty on him as well but he could hardly wrap his head around something so ludicrous. Could one even put a bounty on an entity considered little better than a glorified drone? He sees Julian whip around and has the irrational desire to bite his own tongue clean in half when he realizes he’d actually said that out loud. Julian had glared at him but he supposed there was something in his expression that makes the look relent- understanding, _empathy_ for his condition. He had half a mind to make some other provocative statement just to erase that look but forced it back down giving himself a friendly reminder to focus. Once upon a time he actually knew how to do that _._ He was beginning to wish he’d gotten a drink in spite of the fact that it only would have exacerbated that malady.

The door in front of them now is a large wooden monstrosity wrapped in iron. It seems more designed for function than mere formality as the rest of the partitions that he’s seen so far. Still, given the adult nature of the area below he’s surprised they rely on nothing but a door and a small plaque with some unrecognizable symbol. Unrecognizable to him anyway, Julian seemed to know exactly what it was and was in no hurry to educate him. Garak looks around a moment, self-consciously wondering if anyone is watching the two of them enter and he almost expects to see some leather loincloth clad barbarian out of one of Jadzia’s lurid pulp novels guarding it. And _that_ thought then spawns the recollection of the one book featuring not only that fellow, but an equally scantily clad female donning that cover and it pains him that he can call that offensive thing to mind so vividly. He absolutely refuses to _think_ of the title of that offensive thing, instead preferring to recall the memory of that impish grin of hers, laughing behind her hand as she watched him try and parse that painful text.

Garak peers into that darkness, making out nothing but a wide curving set of steps down. Julian steps up next to him with a small teasing grin.

“Not unless you’re having thoughts of pushing me down the stairs again.”

“While I relish the visual of  our undignified tangle of limbs I’d prefer to keep such things a private matter.”

“We might not have a choice in keeping certain things a private matter. Unless you want them to think we’re just two voyeurs looking for a cheap thrill.”

“If one is permitted all manner of indulgences in the basement space then would that not be permitted as well? Or are we playing favorites when it comes to one’s sexual deviances?” Garak glances over the small printed list of rules not seeing that particularly phrased though one might extrapolate from the mention of privacy and consent-

“Is it some Cardassian instinct to irrationally argue every point or is that just you?”

“Perhaps you might ask Jadzia,” Garak answers far too self satisfied as he decides that he’s done all the fact finding he’s able up here. “She _is_ the cultural expert. I myself can vouch for her… expertise in Cardassian idiosyncrasies. She might even be able to teach you a few things.” And with that he practically glides through the door leaving Julian sputtering hotly at the top.

The stairs glitter. There’s no there word for it, the light catching metal flecks of silver like a beautiful path of stars. It’s almost mesmerizing as he walks down, almost disappointed when the reach the ground. Looking back, he’s reminded how narrow that was, but the stairs had distracted him enough not to particularly notice. Clever. He sees Julian on his heels, and catching the hazel eyes in the dimly lit space, he almost wishes the spectacles weren’t a necessity. That green eyeshine would be quit lovely to behold right now. Garak forces himself to look around, seeing their ingress point as some lone center point of the rest of the room, a veritable maze of makeshift metal walls of some brass, some silver, some chrome, he doesn’t really know. He can see all myriads of their reflections as well as those of some other patrons depending on their position amongst the elaborate house of mirrors. He really has no idea how they’re expected to find anything here without walking in on any number of unsuspecting actors. He also doesn’t know how long he’s going to be able to stand the smell. The incense is so strong that it nearly makes him dizzy. One taste of the air lets him know exactly _why_ such a strong aroma permeates as he can detect that _musk_ intermingled with the smoke.

Garak wrinkles his nose about to complain to Julian when he sees him carefully studying what appears to be a key of the rooms and the layout. He’s not encouraged by the frown as Julian concentrates, seeing the myriad of possibilities from some rope areas, wax, pillows, to water tanks, and there it is a room exactly for voyeurs and exhibitionists alike. Well, it looks like he won that debate after all. But he can see where this is going to be tricky. There don’t appear to be any free floating individuals to ply with questions and he doesn’t imagine the employees are that acutely aware of who is doing what. The areas seem largely self sustaining, a dial near the entrance of each section red for in use green for available he can see. Simple enough. Now if he only had some way to divine what sort of “human experience” this elusive android is in search of...

Garak practically jumps as a hand appears to his side with a white cloth, Julian’s sly little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth letting him know Julian had seen his stalker and done nothing.

“A gift for our Cardassian customers,” a diminutive woman to his left holds that cloth out with a sympathetic look. “These are specially made filters to blot out some of the smell. Fancy, yeah?” He nods, feeling not a little silly as he puts it to his face, finding the aromas dying down to a much more manageable level.

“You have my eternal gratitude,” he says in a muffled voice.

“Was there something I could help you gentlemen with? Any questions, recommendations?” She gives them both a good assessing look up and down, a thoughtful cross of her arms pushing her small bosoms up in the silver corset. Her long black hair is pinned up and she appears human, but there’s something about that face that he can’t quite pick up that isn’t shaped quite right. “I could definitely offer a few suggestions I think you might enjoy,” she informs him with a devilish grin.

Garak is about to consider it honestly.

“Actually,” Julian steps in and he’s not sure whether he’s pleased with that development or not. “We were looking for a gentleman and I was wondering if you might have seen him. He’s about so tall, yellow eyes, somewhat pasty looking skin, he might be calling himself Data but really he’s got any number of names that I-“

“Do you mean Mr. Livingstone? Walks about with a fancy cloak and cape, sometimes wears a brown hat with the little stripies?” She asks not seeming to need any more description than that. Garak wonders at Julian’s eye roll to that name supposing it’s some esoteric knowledge he’s never heard of.

“Yes, that would be him.” She laughs at that, looking far too amused.

“Oh I’m sure you’ll run into him. Tonight’s Thursday so he’ll be making his rounds. Says he’s trying to solve a mystery,” she says dropping her voice a bit dramatically.

“A mystery?” Julian asks doing the same. Garak thinks it’s darling that Julian is so quickly taken with these sorts of theatrics.

“Wouldn’t give me any details only said something about the sign of the four whatever that’s supposed to mean. I don’t ask questions.” She shrugs. “He tips well.”

“The sign of four?” Julian looks confused while Garak thanks the woman seeing his lover deep in thought. “Can an android malfunction?” Julian muses aloud to himself and Garak is about to tell him that _anything_ in theory can malfunction, and they might want to contemplate that _not_ blocking the stairwell, when he turns and catches sight of that very man coming down the stairs like some convenient plot device in a human story.

“Well, my dear,” Garak says from behind the white cloth breathing far easier.” It would seem that we’re about to find out.”

 

Jadzia throws back her head and laughs as she pounds another Sharpshooter down with gusto. The drink is strong, and she watches as the man next to her- a blonde human by the name of Tom if she caught it correctly, waves a hand up as his head slumps down on the bar with a groan.

“Well,” She says feeling a bit unsteady, “I guess there’s my tab.” She looks up at the bartender, Pol, he said his name was, a modern twist on the cultural classic, short sleeves, irreverent tie and twin tattoos up either arm. There’s a tattoo of what appears to be a mythical creature starting at his neck, shaking down and she wonders just how far it goes. He laughs with a shake of his head.

“You know my third wife would adore you,” Pol says with an absolutely infectious smile and for a moment she nearly forgets to watch the doors. Her recovery is a bit exaggerated but he seems to attribute it to Julian and Garak’s absence. “Of course I know not all Trill are quite that open,” he adds. She has to blink a few times before that catches up. Somewhere she thinks her thoughts are still back with Tom’s earlier come on about drinking down to the worm. Clever enough but she’s still heard that one twice before. She realizes exactly what it is Pol is proposing and that might have been quite attractive under different circumstances. 

“Is she a Trill as well?” Jadzia asks knowing that whatever Garak and Julian feel about the matter, she’s already decided it’s going to be a pass. Between the two of them and Worf and their current mission… Ah, and she’d at least thought she left complications behind when she came to Westworld. Well it had seemed that way until Garak came slithering in awakening Julian from that night terror walk through life. If Julian decided that he’d prefer Garak all to himself she supposed she wasn’t attached enough to fight the point- at least not terribly much… and really only if Julian insisted. Which makes her think of Work a bit uneasily. She doesn’t put it past him to follow her here. If he’s back now then he’s determined and she knows just how he is when he set his sights on something. That had been a big part of his appeal after all, his honor, his courage his… She looks up realizing that she nearly missed the answer. _Wait. Did he say-_

“Lenara Kahn?” She asks wondering if she misheard him. He nods enthusiastically.

“You know each other?!” he exclaims with a clap of his hands and that enthusiasm really is quite attractive. She looks down suddenly, drawing her finger around the rim of the glass, not quite sure how to feel about that all of a sudden. Torias’ memories come back in a rush- not for Lenara, who she’s never met in this incarnation, but Nilani. His beautiful Nilani who loved to sketch him in his uniform, who’d have to be pried away from it with a tease, a kiss, a- Jadzia doesn’t realize her hand has stopped until she finds herself staring at it. She wonders what Nilani is like now. The Kahn symbiont had always been more cautious, more level, but just so hard not to be drawn to. Torias used to think she hung the moon, as that old expression went. Jadzia feels that stir at the memory, at the completely insane notion… of them meeting. Dax had been devastated by that sudden sense of loss and she felt that guilt resurge at the memory of Joran, of that tortured soul whose own turmoil surely wasn’t helped by the symbiont’s near inconsolable grief. Jadzia feels that tug again and has the gently pull away, back to her own full consciousness.

Pol seems to detect that shift in mood.

“Ah, of course if that’s not a good acquaintance then no hard feelings.” He slides her another drink, and she finds she really likes the upturn of his nose. His accented standard is nice too- it sounded like he said “vumpire” in standard when talking about his aversion to sunlight. She about to pass on another drink deciding to pull back from getting full on inebriated when he assures her that it’s non alcoholic. “A trick of an old doctor friend, on the house.” He really is quite easy to look at even if he is a bit young- not too young mind but- She really must stop. Already she’s wondering if a violation of that taboo with an intermediary... a very attractive intermediary.

“Thank you. And I’m not offended. Lenara and I were married- Torias Dax was married to Nilani Kahn, that is.” She looks up seeing a blank expression and sighs. “Meeting isn’t a problem but… anything else would be too risky.” She takes a drink, finding that clear liquid surprisingly sweet. She looks at him with a bit of a hopeless smile. “You know Lenara now… _would_ it be risky?”

He nods, a sympathetic sigh of agreement.

“Ah the complexities of other races.”

“But that’s what makes life so exciting, isn’t it?” She says raising her glass, already feeling a pleasant cooling sensation starting at her chest. She looks at him again, still feeling a bit warm and decides it might be best to watch for Data outside where the night air is cooler and there may be a few more slips of latinum to be earned at the card table. She thanks Pol with a generous tip and a big smile as she heads back outside, unaware of the eyes that watch her go.


	50. Man From Cheyenne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Data begins to explain what's going on and Garak and Jadzia find more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a brief hiatus before I made myself crazy but everything is back to schedule so thank you all for your patience. I half debated kicking chapter 50 off with a big bang but decided just to roll along with the main plot. I got too much going on for that so yeah... Anyway I had to think about this a bit and then it hit me, the episode of TNG that I watched over xmas. Poor Garak, forever drug into everyone else's nonsense. Thanks to everyone for sticking around this long ride, and C&C is always welcome.

“Doctor Livingston, I presume?” Julian asks with a wry tick at the corner of his lip. Garak swears that’s supposed to be some sort of joke but for the life of him he cannot figure it out. The android offers no smile in return, though Garak hardly expects it. He does, however, acknowledge the line, eyes carefully surveying the large basement corridors around them.

“It seemed a whimsical pseudonym to use during my investigation. I was surprised that more of the natives did not recognize it. I have only counted about a thirty percent recognition of the cultural significance and of that a fifty percent verbal acknowledgment.”

“I hadn’t seen much of you outside when I was here last,” Julian acknowledges. “The em…” He too looks around seeming flustered. “Is there anywhere that we might speak more freely? Perhaps returning to your house? There are a few things I need to discuss that I’d rather not get into here…”

“As a matter of fact, Doctor, I have found that this basement room is a popular location for clandestine meetings. There is an expensive and advanced material used for the walls of each of these rooms that is a near perfect sound absorption. You may have noticed that even your hearing is not able to parse the conversations and other sounds from the activities and meetings taking place.” _Yes, meetings, I’m sure that’s the source of that pungent aroma._

Garak listens as Data and Julian exchange greetings, not entirely certain if he trusts the discretion of the staff the longer they linger.  Data mentioned that there is a careful code at work and seems almost naïve in his absolute trust in that. _Ah, the secrets they must hold, those who work this room, and to have a hand on that…_ but he tamps that thought down as Data looks at him, hand extended in that old human greeting. He barely registered how Julian presented him and curses his lack of focus. It shouldn’t be any difficulty at all to pay attention to more than one thing at a time, but that ability is woefully hidden beneath a jumble of thoughts, unwanted impulses, and just plain black spaces in some instances. He pastes a gregarious smile on his face as he remembers his training, firm, two shakes, eye contact, release. It is textbook perfect as is Data’s and he feels an odd sense of two well practiced machines exchanging some parody of a human greeting. He then realizes how inane it is to smile when half his face is hidden behind the white cloth, but he supposes it’s better to keep in practice. There is no comment to that affectation but he feels compelled to offer an explanation.

“You’ll have to excuse me, the ambient smell is somewhat strong for Cardassian sensibilities.”

“Then we will want to make use of one of the green rooms,” Data supplies, already seeming to know exactly where to go. Garak finds that curious as he recalls Julian explaining earlier that he hasn’t been home much, instead spending his night “galavanting”. Which answers the question of just how close to human his design is, and Garak nearly sucks the cloth into his mouth as that unwanted intrusive thought creeps its way in. He watches as Julian nods, a rush of conversation going by his ears, drowned out by those errant thoughts and it unnerves him that this is only getting worse since returning from the west. Of course the pragmatic interrogator within will remind him that it’s only the seed of the idea planted so that his own imagination can provide the reinforcement until it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy but that’s small consolation when his eyes are darting anywhere _but_ the android in front of them. Thankfully if Julian notices he does a damn good job of not showing it much to the relief of Garak’s dignity.

Garak isn’t quite sure why this is moving so fast, or if it’s his perception again, but he finds himself walking with them, blinking a few times as the world comes back into focus and he registers exactly where it is they’re going. Especially once Julian explains that the green rooms are a Cardassian accommodation that are usually held in reserve only status, but tonight there seems to be one available from a cancellation. _How fortunate_ , Garak thinks, wondering all of a sudden if the plan is to actually _use_ the room for its intended purpose. That seems something that would be discussed beforehand though if the rooms aren’t monitored he doesn’t much see the point. He considers this as Data makes the arrangement with the attendant and Julian shoots him an odd sideways look that begs him to go along. _Oh you’re being ridiculous, Elim. He’s not going to suddenly spring some strange android augment threesome on you without forewarning. But you do need to curry his favor- assuming such a thing even exists- in order to get whatever Julian is convinced he can provide. Tit for tat, that quaint expression of his seems it would apply._ He thinks of Jadzia upstairs, watching the doors and wonders if they ought to send word, but somehow he missed that part of Julian’s message to the attendant. And surely whatever novelty about to occur cannot possibly be that time consuming _._ Garak follows them down a high walled corridor to the right, taking note of the faint swaths of color next to some numbers and symbols. It’s curious to note that he cannot make any sound out except from all but the loudest patrons and he silently applauds the business decision.

The three of them walk in unusual silence given Julian’s propensity for small talk. Garak notes some rooms are reserved, others not, peering inside where the doors are open to see some beds, bars, an assortment of implements, a tub, some sort of mud room even, and it confounds the mind how these are kept in such condition on a nightly basis. He supposes the expense more than pays for the cost, and if the elegance of the establishment is any indicator, they seem to be doing quite well for themselves. He nearly walks into Julian when he stops, Data comparing the numbers of the key ring to the… series of locks on the door. Garak counts three, two normal tumblers, some inverse sliding bolt and as they enter. He sees that the door bars as well is is thankful the smace is large enough that the panic doesn’t immediately seize him at the thought of being trapped. And more than that, the room is actually _comfortable_ in its temperature and he’s able to lower the cloth much to his relief. He doesn’t smell anything except for Julian and leather. He isn’t sure why he notices that before his eyes properly focus on the strange series of chains hanging from the ceiling, and coming out of the walls, but he supposes it’s a matter of priorities. Julian seems completely unperturbed as the door shuts and he leans back against the wall. Garak continues to stare at the black leather cuffs hanging at the ends of the of the chains, straps of varying adjustments. He supposes if he lets his imagination run he can see some positioning of the body that would fit the strange setup, but he isn’t so certain why anyone would want to-

“Garak?” He hears Julian’s voice, and realizes that to his utter humiliation that the conversation had already resumed while his mind was otherwise occupied. He makes a show of carefully folding the embroidered cloth back, not looking at either of them.

“My apologies, as Doctor Bashir will doubtless inform you, there seems to be an issue with my…” Garak trails off almost huffy, frustrated with his inability to keep his usual calm. “ability to focus.”

“We’ll be able to treat you shortly, I promise you,” Julian says, and Garak can just _feel_ that sympathetic doctor’s gaze. He ignores it and knows he really ought to not speak, knowing that whatever filters are usually present in triplicate have long deserted him.

“I was merely distracted by the presence of all these restraints. I can only imagine the sort of perversities the proprietors think we Cardassians indulge in. Likely they’ve been listening to all those wild Bajoran stories of torture dungeons and other lurid tales of unbridled sadism.” He feels rather than hears Julian come up behind him, a hand on his shoulder accompanied by mock sympathy. Garak looks at that hand filled with an insane urge to nips his fingers.

“And all any of you ever wanted was a spot of tea and a chat, right?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Garak grumbles still feeling out of sorts. He shakes Julian off, watching curiously as he circles around, long fingers toying with one of the chains thoughtfully, carefully.

“You know they _do_ expect us to make use of what’s here,” Julian says seemingly to himself though Garak certainly knows better.  “At least to avoid any suspicion from prying eyes.” He gives Garak a look and that little voice in Garak’s head cheerfully informs him that he wasn’t imagining this bizarre three way but instead somehow seeing a window to the future. Perhaps the Kironide has made him clairvoyant.

“You cannot be serious,” he says flatly. Julian chuckles already starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Nothing kinky, and I’m volunteering myself anyway. Don’t give me that look, I’ll keep my knickers on and everything. Just want to make sure everything looks a bit used is all.” Julian shrugs out of the shirt and Garak is filled with an irrational urge to stand in front of him. He notices though that Data has already half turned not seeming particularly interested in anything but reviewing the notes on a small paper pad. _Does he really need that? Surely his memory storage can more than accommodate whatever it is he needs to store. Unless he’s been using these poor parchments as backup to keep the space free bit it can’t possible be more than a byte or two of data here and there so… So… looking at his garb, he’s likely playing some fanciful dramatic role. Lovely._

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Garak protests, finding his voice, while starting to find the notion perversely intriguing. Still, there is a closely associated memory stirring of Julian in a similar position that’s not entirely pleasant.

“It won’t be more than a half hour or so and it’s not the worst that I’ve ever-“ Julian stops speaking and only then Garak realizes it’s because his hands are over his. He blinks, feeling almost out of body as he speaks.

“Surely you’re not so eager for another torture session so soon, my dear.” He watches Julian blanch and suddenly feels quite silly for the prudish objection in the course of his work. Because he realizes now, that that’s exactly what this is. _It’s still part of the assignment, Elim. Of course, it’s all part of your mission. You’re not at home in your living room entertaining guests with a bottle of kanar, you’re still very much_ _working_ _. You’re not in a relationship, you fool, you’re here for a purpose, and you need to remember that. This isn’t a vacation, this isn’t a leisure trip. The Order may have very well collapsed, someone is trying to_ _murder_ _you, and you’re sitting here hand wringing about a Guls damned android seeing some human doctor nude! This isn’t your spouse, your lover, this is a man you’re engaged with as a matter of convenient resources and idle sexual release._ Garak in fact blinks a few times resisting the urge to shake the nonsense clear out of his head. The immediate objective is to meet whatever conditions their contact provides, possibly negotiate, and then achieve a clearing of his head. Of course. It’s simple. It’s so painfully, _stupidly_ simple he has no idea how Julian and his motley crew of Starfleet exiles has sucked him into this endless barrage of madcap capers.

“I believe I’m feeling a bit adventurous,” Garak says, his usual glibness returning as he starts unbuttoning his own shirt to Julian’s surprise. “I think it only fair to let you take the reins in this encounter, my dear. Tit for tat, and all that as you’re so fond of saying.”

“Garak,” Julian says, eyes narrowed a bit suspiciously. Well, let him. Julian is hardly privy to his innermost thoughts.

“Forgive my lapse, Mr. Livingston,” Garak sees no reason not to keep up the charade. “As I said before, I’ve been suffering a bit of a malady with my thoughts as of late that I hope you’ll be able to assist with once we’ve solved the matter of?..” He looks up expectantly as he continues undressing, enjoying the happy warm air coming up from the metal grate in the bottom of the wall. Julian looks about to put his own shirt back on when Garak affects a leer- not too much affected, Julian shirtless is always a rather nice treat, after all- and lets it be known he’s perfectly happy to enjoy the view. With a shrug, the shirt is instead balled up and discarded which pains Garak to no end as he folds, tucks, and sets every stitch of clothing neatly on a pile shoes to the side in the reverse order of which they were removed. He says nothing to Julian’s amused grin and instead finds himself looking at the chains curiously. He isn’t sure if his fear of small spaces will extend to being bound in such a fashion. He certainly hopes not but he doesn’t feel that familiar stab of anxiety when he cheerfully holds out his right arm to be cuffed. Good.

“We really ought to get you situated first,” Julian says almost clinically and Garak finds it _very_ interesting indeed that he seems to know his way around the swinging setup. He files that away for later certain he can make use of it in some... professional capacity.

“Noted,” Garak says, gingerly slipping onto that seat, practiced enough with the hammocks that tend to freely swing on various Indigo common spaces to not topple backwards; this seems much more settled in any case. He looks up, hands absently circled around the chains suspending the seat as if he were seated on one of the swings out back behind Rom’s. Something Leeta informed him Jake and Nog used to play with as children. Strangely, he understood, the swinging motion a rather hypnotic relaxation even if his first attempt left him convinced he was going to flip clear over the wooden crossbeam at the top. There was also an amused look that Jadzia shot him when she came upon him freely swinging there letting him know there was a massive “tire swing”- whatever that was-over a gorge in Chapparal that he decided he absolutely had to see one day. He shakes that errant thought aside, frustrated at the moment lost in that daydream. The last thing he needs is to be planning site seeing trips around Westworld as if he’s going to be here the rest of his life.

He lets it drop however as Julian gently starts moving his limbs into whatever position he sees fit.

“Lay back,” Julian instructs him almost as if he were a patient on a hospital bed and Garak supposes that affecting any real sensuality will be difficult at best as Data turns back around, barely even sparing him a glance.

“The matter has grown more complicated than I had originally surmised, but with your assistance, doctor, I believe we can bring it to a swift conclusion. Your skills will be invaluable in assisting. It starts, you see, with the Betazoid Ambassador, Lwaxana Troi-“ Garak sees Julian stop, wince, and wonders if there’s not an interesting story to be told there. Data stops as well, seeing that reaction and Julian clears his throat as he secures Garak’s left hand out, both arms now up and out at his sides in the comfortable cuffed leather.

“We’ve ah… met before,” Julian answers evasively, face darkening just a touch. Garak feels a slight disappointment that the matter isn’t pressed further.

“It would seem that the Ambassador went missing some months ago along with her daughter Counsellor Troi. That was the report I received from Captain Picard when I sent an inquiry. The reason for the inquiry was my happening upon the Ambassador quite by accident in the company of several Ferengi. She did not appear to be complicit in their trip but my suspicions were not completely aroused until she caught my eye. She looked at me a very long time and I don’t believe she realized my programming allows me to lip read. Nonetheless…”

“Nonetheless…” Julian says, finishing the cuff of Garak’s left leg, leaving him feeling rather strangely trussed up, his heart picking up in spite of the complete lack of sexual air to the situation. He’s certain that it’s the position, his knees pulled up and out from his body much in the way Julian’s had been when he… _Ah… that’s likely intentional then…_ Though Julian doesn’t seem eager to begin with any of the implements of… well perhaps torture isn’t exactly the right word as he passes up a paddle in favor of some long feathery thing that seems to hold no practical purpose that he can determine.

“Nonetheless,” he too repeats dumbly, eyes fixed on Julian as he walks around with a smirk that’s absolutely brimming with ill intent.

“Nonetheless,” Data continues, oblivious to Garak’s impending doom, “I was able to determine that the men she was with are holding Counsellor Troi, yet I have not been able to determine where. It seems to be outside of Central but my resources and contacts here are limited.”

“Surely you could ask Starfleet to at least send someone? I understand they’ve no jurisdiction here, but that’s no reason that the resources couldn’t be spared for a clear case of kidnapping. They sure could spare the personnel for other matters,” Julian concluded darkly though Garak would point out that Section 31’s priorities don’t necessarily mirror Starfleet’s own.

“Oh I’ve already made that request, Doctor,” Data assures him calmly and Garak doesn’t know why but something strikes him in that moment, a sense of impending doom that has little to do with the feathery stick and Julian’s curious question asking if Cardassians are ticklish. That isn’t to say that that ominous query doesn’t concern him as well but- “I sent a brief message to Worf some weeks back and received a response but he’s yet to make contact with me. I am sure he must have arrived by now but-“ But Julian stops just as the feather hovered dusty light over the scales around Garak’s knee leaving him one part relieved and two parts uneasy.

“What did your message say, Data?” Julian interjects, that playfulness gone from his countenance. Garak almost huffs in irritation, thinking that if he’s gone through all this trouble the least Julian can do is finish this properly, but he too would be curious as the the answer. Data doesn’t seem to register anything amiss but, Garak can practically hear Julian’s thoughts screaming as they both recall the scene of Jadzia fleeing on horseback from her husband’s unexpected arrival.

“I did not wish to give anything away should the message be intercepted so I simply let him know “She is here. And she needs you to come.””

Julian nearly drops the rod he’s holding and Garak’s eyes roll back with suck heaviness his head follows suit, almost dizzy as he looks to the gray ceiling. _Of course, Data would think only of the MIA counsellor in reference and yet-_

“You… _are_ aware of the other _her_ who’s here as well, aren’t you?” Julian asks in an almost strangled voice. Garak would laugh if it wouldn’t be terribly inappropriate. Oh… he already _is_ laughing _,_ and is acutely aware of the android’s confused stare at them both.

“I am afraid that I do not see the humor in the situation.”

“Jadzia,” Julian answers with a laugh that, like Garak’s isn’t so much amused as it is bitterly beautiful. “His wife is here. He came to Indigo to bring her back. God, he’s probably still there even.” Garak’s head heavily rocks back up to watch Data, he sees that introspection dawning to understanding. The chain rattles as he forgets that his hands aren’t free to applaud.

“I see,” he says at last after a brief silence. “Then it would appear I have made a miscalculation.”

 

_You don’t say…_

 

 

Of all the adjectives that could ever be used to describe Jadzia Dax, “cautious” has never been at the top of that list. And tonight, wanted poster decorating the city of Central, she sits amongst a group of Ferengi, placing another bet with the latinum she’s won a short while ago. Watching the entrance of the large club by herself wasn’t exactly her idea of entertainment. In actuality that had lasted all of about ten minutes. She isn’t sure when Julian and Garak are going to emerge- or the target for that matter. She’s settled for scaling back the drink, knowing how to carefully feign imbibing instead, enjoying the loud crowd and the breeze that blows outside. Jadzia almost doesn’t put it past Julian and Garak to become distracted downstairs, and after another round, and another few slips of latinum mournfully going to the Ferengi across from her who reminds her a little of Rom, she finds her attention starting to wander away from the sporadic looks towards the gates and instead doubling down her attention on the table game to see if she can’t win some of her latinum back. Of course she can always get more in the morning, but that wouldn’t be _earned_ and it just wouldn’t quite feel the same.

She actually loses track of just how much time passes as her winnings vacillate wildly back and forth. She loses track of a lot really as she bluffs her way to another victory, a leg under the table catching a slick switch of cards between the two men across from her. She smiles prettily at them. They smile back not quite so prettily at having been caught. Those smiles drop in an instant however leaving her curious, but still oblivious to the situation. And that’s why when she feels the hand on her shoulder she nearly jumps out of her skin from where she’d been leaned over the table. Jadzia lets out an involuntary yelp thinking that she must be getting out of practice.

“I’m sorry, you-“ She turns to the side briefly as she speaks and nearly falls into the table itself when she sees exactly who is standing above her. She can hardly believe it in fact, and when she does her initial instinct is to run again. She’s already considering it as practically jumps from the chair, taking a subtle step back out of range. 

 

Because the man she’s facing now is none other than her husband Worf.


	51. Four Faces West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jadzia discovers something amiss with Worf and Julian proves that Cardassians are quite ticklish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah RL continues to be something is the easiest way to put it. Still struggling to get back into the swing of things. A lot going on but dammit I'm trying. Anyway, thank you all for sticking with me you're great! I did struggle a bit with this and the next chapter so not sure I'm entirely happy but I don't have anything else either so we'll see how it all plays out. I remember seeing this ep of TNG at Christmas last and I'm glad I got to work it in, though sadly, no Riker appearing. C&C is always welcome, and thanks for reading!

“Jadzia.” Her name is spoken simply, not much different than it had been a few weeks ago back in Indigo. Her expression darkens as she steps away from the table. Her head still spins a bit, though not nearly as badly as before with that tonic seeming to have helped a considerable bit. There’s also something about his voice, his stance, that doesn’t seem quite right but she isn’t sure if that’s just the result of her impaired judgment. Jadzia shakes her head, trying to clear out that fog further.

“I already said everything that needed to be said, Worf. And this isn’t a good time.” Said, yelled, it amounted to the same, really and she’d had a completely irrational hope that he’d have been gone by the time she returned from Central. _If_ she decided to return from Central. For all his stubbornness and insisting it was she who had sent for him claiming she was ready to return “home”, she’d half expected him to be building a house by now for the two of them to live in. He hadn’t taken her current residence well and the shouting match over what did or didn’t constitute a whore house had prompted an uncomfortable confrontation between Worf and security. Which had given her all the opportunity she’d needed to grab her kit and a horse, leaving him to follow after her.

He looks strangely calm right now, which troubles her. Even with weeks to pass by, she wouldn’t have expected such sanguinity given the circumstances in which he’s once again found her. He’d never begrudged her her friends but she knew that her easy company with the Ferengi never quite sat well with him. Especially given how she’s currently attired.

“Walk with me.” The words are spoken as an order and not a question. She finds herself bristling automatically.

“I already told you this isn’t a good time.”

“I wasn’t asking.” Now there’s a tone that sounds far more familiar. She smiles back with a pretty show of teeth.

“I didn’t think you were.” She’s getting more agitated and there’s a part of her that knows that this devolving into a shouting match isn’t going to get them anywhere. And she pulls that combative edge back just barely, knowing that Julian and Garak are depending on her to watch the front. “Just because I left my career in Starfleet doesn’t mean that I don’t still have duties, and right now I’m working on something that I can’t discuss right now.”

“It will only take a moment. There is a grave matter that I need to address with you immediately.” He’s brusque, clipped, but still not exactly… emotional. Jadzia sighs as she considers just how long “a moment” will truly be before deciding that remaining will only heighten any potential confrontation. She can play nice when she needs to, after all.

“Just a moment then, in the gardens.” She should still have a fair enough view but it will afford them at least the illusion of privacy as she leads him through the side gate to the quiet dark. Jadzia looks at him carefully as they walk past the hedges, no questing lovers to be heard or seen, but then again this isn’t usually public domain during the week. It seems to her that there’s something that’s just a bit too stiff in his walk as the massive night flowers blood around them catching moonlight and that brightly lit side gate grows barely large enough to see. The Starfleet Uniform is curious. Somehow he manages to look even more out of place than he had wearing the ill fitting Westworld suit back in Indigo. Perhaps he’s finally decided to return then. Even as Commander now, his station would only allow for so much leave and he’s been here long enough already. Perhaps he means for her to accompany him back then? As Julian would say, not bloody likely.

“So what couldn’t possibly wait a few more hours?” There’s some immediate pinprick of wrongness as soon as she asks the question and she watches him subtly positioning his body between her and the arch of the hedges leading back to the front. They almost seem to have wandered further back than her initial guess. The large exotic plants box them into the center, the other arch leading further into the back. She knows the gardens from memory, but they seem to have expanded their carefully cultivated semi maze. She watches Worf, taking mental stock of her weapons. She doesn’t worry about needlessly attacking. He would only be in danger if his guard was down, and he’d never be so foolish.

“You are my wife,” he says in a clipped tone seeming to be unaware of her shift in posture. She subtly moves her left foot forward, resting back on her right. She laughs.

“I never stopped being your wife, Worf, but you-“

“It is time that you come home. This… nonsense has been going on long enough.”

“I’m not hearing anything new,” she answers carefully. He’s always been stubborn, but it isn’t like him to be this repetitive. He doesn’t seem to have anything new to offer and she needs to get back to the front before she misses something important.

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Worf says, which she knows is a lie. She’s never made a secret of her location. Unless he means here on Westworld, but again she’s hardly been trying to hide.

Jadzia considers that, considers the situation, knowing that there’s a dull to her reflexes still lingering because of the alcohol, that her full facilities still aren’t there no matter how close to full functionality she feels. She thinks of Emony Dax never able to hold her liquor and is thankful that Curzon never had that problem.

“You know that Julian and Garak are expecting me back shortly,” She drops the names expecting that anger bordering on rage he’d displayed back in Indigo. The invectives he’d spat towards the “Cardassian coward” and Doctor Bashir’s unforgivable betrayal would not be easily forgotten. But he barely reacts, and _that’s_ the moment that she knows that something is absolutely wrong. There’s a twitch in her, an urge to dramatically declare that he’s certainly _not_ Worf with a grand flourish. Garak seems to be rubbing off on her a bit and she keeps that smile tightly in check. Some of it still must seep through though even as he declares there is nothing amusing about their separation and she frankly tunes him out to listen for other sounds. 

And there it is, a rustle, the laughter of some couple coming seemingly from behind him or possibly even from behind that hedge. She isn’t sure, rely solely on her hearing and the direction the wind carries, but she has the feeling it’s not a couple she wants to encounter them. The standard is accented, Cardassian she knows immediately, and her thoughts fall not to the bounty set on her, but to those that have been pursuing Garak. Jadzia knows she’s gone too quiet and that’s going to arouse suspicion. It may be too late though. She counts three; two men including “Worf”, one woman. Depending on their skill level-

“Target isolated, Jadzia Daz,” she hears spoken behind her, and she feels the tension in her body whirl, wanting to turn towards the source of that noise. Training battles that instinct and instead she pivots back, letting her body keep both parties in sight. 

The man who appears from the arch behind is tall, muscular but agile, and very much Cardassian. He carries himself with a military air that’s evident even in the Westworld clothing. He must have been speaking to himself because there’s no communication device she knows of that would work here. Unless... there are others close enough to hear him and for Cardassian hearing. That certainly doesn’t bode well for her situation. She studies him quickly on high alert for the rest that have to be around. He’s dressed in black, blending into the darkness, appearing like some shade, long sleeves covering his hands. So then he’ll have weapons. With her back to the hedge it’s not perfect- it will keep anyone coming up from behind but it will also hinder her movements. There’s a bench, a fountain, and she thinks she may be able to work with all of that depending.

“I told you I would take you back,” Worf, who is definitely not Worf says and it irritates her that this impostor is still claiming to be her estranged husband. She can see why Garak usually favors levity, it’s much more enjoyable to make an irritable situation amusing. She can’t help the smile that appears on her face, the two knives drawn. None seem poised to draw guns and she knows they must be from off world, not trusting of Westworld arms. Well that’s just fine by her.

“Consider this an annulment ,” she quips feeling not entirely silly, testing the weight of the knife in her right hand. If by some chance it really _is_ Worf whether he’s finally lost his mind or something else is going on then she has no doubt he’ll catch it- mostly… There might be something slightly satisfying about the thought of the knife hitting its target even if only in effigy. The knife leaves her hand, and she’s already going for another carefully concealed in her dress when she watches, eyes widening as the blade is knocked askew in the air by another thrown from the Cardassian at the other arch. She can’t help the low curse that escapes her as his threat level goes up in her estimation. She’s also aware that she’s lost the element of surprise, the two men not rushing in but instead waiting for the voices to come closer.

A tall Cardassian woman strides in beneath the arch they’d entered during the standoff, still dressed in the black military uniform from off world. She’s flanked by a shorter man who appears to be looking around uneasily. Jadzia doesn’t think that he’ll be a problem, but there’s something about the woman that strikes her. She carries herself as one in command, and there’s an odd familiarity about her features as well that Jadzia can’t quite place. It’s clear even through the armor that she had broad shoulders for a woman and tight lean muscle. Her hair is slicked back in a masculine style but there’s still a distinct sway of her hips when she walks. There’s a stiff incline of her head, as if the imperious movements are the result of a careful practice and not a natural instinct. She holds up a hand just as it looks like the man in black is going to try and engage. Jadzia’s grip on her knives remains firm but easy as she shifts back and forth on the balls of her feet just waiting. There’s a twist of the woman’s mouth considering and she speaks to Jadzia in Cardassian.

“Do you understand me?” she asks and Jadzia nods. Admittedly, she’s curious as to the point of everything but not foolish enough to drop her guard. Still, this was an elaborate ruse from some clearly dangerous people and she immediately thinks of the attempts on Garak’s life once more.

“You are The Snake’s woman.” The woman says it more like a statement than a question and the absurdity of it in the moment makes Jadzia want to laugh. Scratch that. She _does_ laugh. It’s such a strange phrasing that she would expect from the mouth of some weathered old prospector that the snort that escapes in spite of the gravity of the situation. The woman does not appear to be amused as her jaw tenses and she looks to the others briefly. “You are Jadzia Dax.” Again, spoken with that certainty and Jadzia raises an eyebrow, her stance still wary and defensive.

“Then if you know I’m Dax, you know that I’m not anybody’s “woman”.” She thinks of the bounty hunter Kira Nerys and how proud she would be of that declaration. Kira would be a welcome right now; even if she is hard to control around Cardassians. Jadzia decides that she’ll need to take out the man in black first. He hasn’t left her peripheral vision and seems to be the most dangerous. She discreetly moves the hilt of the knife towards the small catch of the bracelet. It’s minute, it’s a hair trigger miniature feat of engineering as Miles has said but it has a lethal dose of venom and she’s sure that won’t be detected. The only trick will be to make sure that it hits his face and not his clothing as delicate as it is.

“The Snake,” the woman stops and then corrects herself. “Elim Garak,” she practically spits, “you know him. Intimately. I can smell his stink on you.”

“It may have been dinner as well,” Jadzia offers. “I did have lizard heart. It’s considered a delicacy where I’m from.” She smiles prettily, that subtle shift of her arm surely at the angle to hit the man in black with the small dart. “But if I did know this… Elim Garak… what business would it be of yours?” She wants to keep them talking; it would be far better to have someone come upon them than to have to take more drastic measures. Usually that isn’t an issue with Cardassians, but she sees that stiffness in the woman’s demeanor, an agitation and she knows in an instant that this isn’t going to drag out much longer.

“You have a choice, Trill. You can come with us, or we can leave you as a gift for The Snake in pieces. And he won’t care whether or not you live or die, I promise.” It isn’t an idle threat. Jadzia can see the woman ready to draw whatever it may be. She hopes it’s a phaser so she can see the look on her face when it fails. It isn’t a chance that she’s able to take though

“Well, I always have been a gal who likes to play the odds. So let’s see what you’ve got.”  Jadzia feels a rush of excitement at the words that Julian swears is going to be the death of her one day. But as Worf- the _real_ Worf- would say, today is a good day to die.

And so she lets it fly.

 

A half hour later, Garak finds himself concluding along with Julian that yes, Cardassians are in fact quite ticklish. It was not a question he’d ever had much cause to consider before today but now that he has- thought about it that is, he realizes that his interrogation arsenal definitely will not be complete without adding this particular torture. Garak isn’t sure what the human obsession is with this hyper stimulation of nerves, but it is a fiendish one that would make any member of the order seethe with jealousy as the ease with which an operative could use such a thing to extract information. Fortunately for Garak, Julian’s interest is not in information but rather some sadistic sl experimentation as he brushes that light touch behind the knee once more, watching Garak twitch in the bonds helplessly. Of course it had not taken Data that entire time to relay the situation at hand. In fact, it hadn’t taken the android more than five minutes to neatly and succinctly summarize a situation that as Julian so colorfully put it was completely gone to st. No, the remainder of that time had been spent indulging Julian’s curiosity as well as discussing the matter of Garak’s mental condition. At least that what he _thinks_ has been occurring. The unforgivable distraction has proven to be… well… quite distracting.

The laughter for instance, that’s probably worse than the darkened flush of swollen scales and the partial eversion of his cock. Raucous laughter has never been a part of any role he’s assumed, nor is it a natural action. That is, it isn’t a natural reaction to anything other than the breath stealing tickle that Julian delights in, deciding that he’s going to move over his inner thigh while somehow still able to hear Data discussing… something… Garak has tried to stifle that reaction so that he could hear their conversation, but somehow he figures in the din of that sensation that he’s been rather neatly maneuvered to this position by a diabolically and disgustingly _clever_ Julian. The tickle had started out mild. Nothing but a small distraction and he was still more than able to process the situation at hand with the Ambassador. As Data had best determined, the Ferengi holding her captive had decided that having one of the galaxy’s strongest telepaths at their disposal for business negotiations would allow their profit to increase their profit exponentially.

Naturally, Lwaxana was not a woman who felt particularly motivated to enter into such an arrangement of her own accord and therefore it fell to the Ferengi to use her daughter Deanna as a bargaining chip in the entire equation. There was still some confusion as to how such a feat was obtained given that she was on active duty in Starfleet but Garak could certainly guess. Though what Garak _hadn’t_ been able to quite determine at first was why they would still be here on Westworld of all places when they could potentially have the entire Alpha Quadrant at their mercy- fiscally speaking. To which Data had spouted off one of the old Indigo rumors about latinum flowing from the hills and had Garak not been about to swallow his own tongue when Julian let that feather dust over the scales on his chest, he may very well have tried to slam his head into the nearest wall in frustration. 

He had no idea what insane attraction this planet held for so many that they were willing to come to this miserable backwater dirt ball full of madmen, but whatever it was, it kept them coming in droves. He only prayed it wasn’t catching because as soon as this mission concluded, and he figured out just what he was going to do about… well everything really, he was going home and going to enjoy a nice few months with electricity, rainy afternoons, and a nice bottle of vintage kanar. Something told him that he wouldn’t likely find his prize vintage in the cellar unscathed but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it as the humans say.

Which leads him back to the present, finding that Julian’s conversation has taken a turn away from any real substance settling instead on his somewhat whimsical observations of Garak’s physiological reactions. That’s all well and good since along the way they’d pledged assistance in exchange for… for something Julian and Data had discussed while Garak was twisting away from that Guls d feather. Whatever it was, it left Julian satisfied that Garak’s problem would be resolved. His neurological problem that it, the embarrassing matter of his shaking limbs and questing c remains at odds and his mouth is a tight line _not_ wanting to make any entreaties but-

“J-Julian…” he manages to pant, fixing his eyes to the ceiling so he doesn’t see that look of feigned disinterest poorly hiding some lusty amusement at his expense. “Far be it… for me to…” To squeak when Julian lets that line trail over his quivering stomach… “to make an unr-reasonable request but…”

“But?” Another flick down his side and he thinks that there are times when Julian is just so _awful_ at hiding his emotions that his attempt to try is in itself offensive. Still, obstinance in this case certainly isn’t going to punish _Julian._

“But if you c… could s-see your way t-to…” He swallows, Julian enjoying this far too much. “finishing what you’ve s-started….”

He might as well since the conversation with Data has clearly led to whatever conclusion it was meant to. Garak has long passed the point of modesty and is more than willing to ignore the elephant in the room as the saying goes, as long as there are no comments from said elephant.

“I’ll think about it,” Julian says offhanded. Garak silently vows the wrath of the State on him when all of this is finished. He sees a look pass between Julian and Data and he wonders idly if such activities even hold any interest for him. He almost thinks somewhere dimly in the back of his mind that was a point of the conversation when Julian really began teasing him but it’s rather foggy at the moment.

“Now this would be that impulse control that Garak is concerned about.” Julian explains shooting him a sinful smirk over those lenses and he swallows hard, feeling that partial eversion evert just a little further, slicking rather obviously. _Guls, don’t tell me he’s going to narrate through this…_ “He’s not usually this demanding…” Julian says as he lets the hand holding the feather drop, leaving Garak to try and sit up further to better see him. _“_ Garak?” Julian calls looking up from the floor and Garak watches that eversion neatly complete itself just as Julian naughtily murmurs, “I’ve done thinking about it,” and proceeds to swallow him right down to the root.

                Apparently his brain isn’t the only part of him suffering an impulse control problem.


End file.
